Scots Terms
Fash – to fret or to worry.
as old as the hills – another way of saying someone’s very old.
Bairn – child
Margaret Aitken – was a real person during the 1597 witch hunts in Scotland. See historical note at the end of the script, or click the dreaded Wikipedia link.
A close – is a type of narrow alleyway in Scottish cities. Edinburgh might be more famous for them as some are incredible narrow.
Da – Dad
Ma – Mum
ijit – yet another word for idiot, although this one is easier to decipher.
Script
There’s a picture in the shop. Picture is probably the wrong word, it’s more like a painting. Done in pencil, or charcoal, it has no colour, but the curve of the blackened lines and the smoothing of the shadow give it an enticing depth. I must’ve walked past this image hundreds of times since I started working in the shop, and never seemed to notice it before that day.
It’s small, barely bigger than an A4 sheet of paper, kept within a simple, dark wooden frame that doesn’t seem as old as the picture itself. There’s no date in the corner, no sneaky artist’s initials hidden within the shaded lines. It’s quite unassuming, quite simple, wouldn’t look out of place in someone’s home studio, something they created in their spare time.
For some reason, that day, this picture captures my attention. It’s set a bit further back from the path through the antiques. Not buried, but not in your face either. It’s leaning against a pile of Good Housekeeping magazines from the 30s, not quite facing where I’m standing, slightly off to the right, towards the door. Carefully I find a place to put my foot, between wicker baskets and chairs, so I can lean over and reach the frame. After nearly losing my balance, I finally manage to grasp the frame and return to the main pathway to inspect it. The shop has a lot of paintings, some in big carved frames picturing places and people from mythology and folklore, others are small, simple, and contain sailing boats bobbing on the soft waters during a sunset. This one is different.
The blackened charcoal lines show a town square, surrounded by buildings. There’re blurry outlines of people walking around. The buildings are three and four storeys high, have thatched rooves, and windows with diamond shaped mullions. On the outside you can see the timber frames, the exposed skeleton, and some are sagging in places, or completely crooked, with it looking like the floor is built on a slope. Some of the buildings appear to be shop fronts, more like market stalls, whilst the top floors have washing hanging out, and even the faint outline of people. Out of all the small details, the one thing that stands out is the object standing in the middle of this courtyard. One wee thing in a sweeping snapshot that simultaneously causes awe and revulsion.
Gallows.
I can’t really explain what happened next. The painting was in the centre of my vision, the thatched rooves, the cloudy smudged sky, the blurs of people, but slowly the edges of the frame seeped out, the image enlarged. I felt like I was being swallowed whole, my body being pulled forwards. The next thing I remember I’m still looking down at my hands, except they’re empty, no wooden frame, no charcoal picture. The ground beneath my feet is also not the wooden floorboards of the shop, but condensed mud, dampened by rain, puddles here and there. I look up, expecting to see the antique chairs and vanity table, even the magazines the picture had been leaning against. Instead, I find old buildings, rooves the colour of the wheat in the fields, the outsides washed white, skeletal wooden frames showing the crooked floors. I begin to realise that I’m in the painting. The world here isn’t as black and white as the drawing, everything’s in colour, even the people. There is one difference between what I was seeing and the picture. The gallows in the middle of the square are gone.
I’m no different to anyone else who has a shallow knowledge of history. You think olden times and you assume dark, drear, filthy conditions where nobody knows how to smile, and everyone lives in fear of God. There are people about, but they’re dressed in colour, in muted pinks, pungent crimsons, and natural blues. Women have their heads covered, and men wear caps. I feel like I’ve been flung into a Shakespearean play, except I don’t know what part I’m supposed to play.
When I look down, I’m still dressed in my usual jeans and t-shirt, but no one’s staring at me. In fact, no one’s even looking in my direction. I’m at a loss on what I should do. I don’t know how I got here, so how the hell was I supposed to get out? Was this even real? Was I just hallucinating? For a start there were noises, a rarity in the shop. People scuffing their leather shoes against the mud or stepping in the puddles left over from the rain. The thud as a horse walked heavily by carrying a man wearing a cloak. The faint creak of the windows as they were opened outwards. The smells on the air weren’t unpleasant. The scent of recent rain lingered, a feeling of damp encircling me.
I realised that there was nothing else to do but explore, see if I couldn’t find a way back from whatever was going on. Before I could take a single step, I heard a voice from behind me. I felt like I recognised this voice, I’d heard it before somewhere. Instinctively I turned around and saw two well-dressed women walking towards me. One was younger than the other, not much older than me, and a wee bit taller. I couldn’t see her hair colour because of the white linen cap that hid it, but her eyes were an eerie shade of blue, so light they almost disappeared into the white. I’d seen those eyes before, seen them in that face, seen them frosty, seen them sparkle with mirth. This young woman was Madam Norna. I’m pretty sure my mouth was open as the two women walked past me.
The older one I didn’t recognise. I could’ve sworn she gave me a glance, but it was so quick I may have just imagined it. I felt like calling out, but what would I say? What would I even call her? Was she even the Madam now? I decided to follow the two, hoping they wouldn’t notice. As we moved away from the square and down one of the streets, it became muddier beneath my feet, my shoes stained with brown that I was hoping was just mud. The more people I passed the more I began to realise that I wasn’t being stared at. This place, this town, was obviously in the past, yet I was dressed in thoroughly modern clothes. No one even looked at me.
To test my theory, I even went up to a smart dressed man and spoke to him, but he walked straight past me like I was invisible. I did try and walk through walls only to be stopped by them. I was literally an invisible person. At least I could speak, although it wasn’t as if anyone could hear me.
I continued to follow Madam Norna and the older woman until they arrived at a shop front. There was a small section that looked as though it could open, not unlike a market stall. There was no name painted above or on a sign, so I had no idea what it was. The door was left open after the two women slipped inside. I don’t know what shops were like back then, but this is far from what I’d ever imagined. And it all looked familiar somehow, felt familiar. The placement of the walls, of the wooden counter, the shelves behind it packed with glass jars and wooden trays labelled with names I couldn’t even read. From the outside I’d have thought it’d be smaller on the inside, but it was cavernous, stretching further back than I’d expected. In one corner there was a loom, a large wooden structure strung up with hundreds of wee threads, a small stool placed before it. Deeper inside was a bench, more white thread, and tiny wee boards filled with pins, the threads winding between them in a lace like pattern. The next bench was more practical, filled with hammers, chisels, and tools I couldn’t name, small pins littered everywhere. It seemed that every surface was used to make a different thing. There were shelves filled with rolls of fabric, reems of lace, and tendrils of ribbons. It felt like I’d be able to find anything if I just looked hard enough.
My concentration was captured by the two women who were tying each other’s aprons and fixing their linen caps. A very young Madam Norna was talking about something, although her voice wasn’t as soft as I was used to. She was telling the older woman that “they” were expected in this town next, and that’d “they’d” arrive soon. No idea who ‘they’ were, but from the concerned look pulling her brows together I didn’t think they were welcome visitors.
The older woman told her not to fash, a word my Grannie used to use when she’d tell someone not to worry, and that everything’d be fine. Young Madam Norna didn’t look convinced. The older woman then called her Isobel, instructing her to make up Master McCready’s prescription. Isobel must be Madam Norna’s real name, so this was before she’d become Madam.
I began to look about the shop, at all the things in it, at the walls, the floor, even towards the doorway at the back, and I began to realise this was the antique shop. Practically the same in everything but contents. When something black and four legged jumped on the countertop, startling Isobel, I felt my mouth hang open again. Young Madam Norna scolded Chronos for giving her a fright. Chronos? No, that couldn’t be the same cat. Maybe all cats in the shop were called that, like Madam Norna? Somehow, I was more inclined to believe that wee shite was as old as the hills. No wonder he’s so good at cards.
When I saw the older woman moving in my direction, I leaped out of the way, and again I could’ve sworn we made eye contact. She made her way over to the loom, sat down in front of it, and began to throw the shuttle back and forth, the wooden parts clacking rhythmically. If Isobel was being called by her name, and this was the antique shop, then this woman must be current-to-the-time Madam, right? I say older woman, but she wasn’t even that old, probably the same age as the Madam looked in my time, early forties at the latest. She had green eyes and lightish blonde hair, at least her eyebrows were, the linen cap covered most of her head.
I wasn’t standing around for long before someone came into the shop. Another woman, a wee bit older, with grey hair peeking out from beneath her head covering. Isobel greeted her by name and the two started the usual chitchat that comes with being a regular customer. Whilst Isobel was busying behind the counter the older woman began to muse that a woman called Margaret Aitken was being wheeled into town by the witch hunters. She continued that people in the town were already reporting neighbours, family, friends, and more importantly enemies to the authorities prior to their arrival. I haven’t heard the name Margaret Aitken since I was a bairn in school. She was the head of the second wave of national witch trials in Scotland. After being accused of being a witch, she then claimed she could identify other witches, and so the witch hunters began to travel around Scotland getting her to throw other people under the bus on the promise that she’d be pardoned by doing so. She wasn’t, and after being exposed as a liar by people in Glasgow, she was killed. She still managed to throw hundreds of innocent people onto the pyre.
Isobel, after handing over a linen pouch to the woman that smelled like dried weeds, asked when this witch hunting party was due. In the next two days, according’ to the woman. Young Madam Norna looked understandably worried, and glanced to her boss for reassurance, which came as confidently as it had the first time. Don’t fash, all will be well.
Time wasn’t the same for me as it was to the world around me. One minute it was morning, and the next dusk had begun to settle into the overcast sky. The Madam dismissed Isobel, telling her to go home, and curious, I followed. Back past the courtyard, through the streets, down narrow alleys, until we reached a close with washing hanging over our heads and bairns playing and running about. The damp was worse here, there was a distinct waft of mould with every breath I took, and the air didn’t feel as fresh as it had before. This part of town was by no means slum-like, the ground was relatively clean, the people we passed well turned out. Here it felt like poverty was an ever-constant possibility should one thing go wrong, one bad decision made. These people weren’t poor, but they were probably barely getting by.
Isobel opened a dark wooden door and stepped inside to an even darker hallway, barely lit by the dying light outside. From memory she strode her way over to the stairs and made her way up them. It took my eyes a while to adjust, and I may have tripped over a few stairs on my journey after her. The rooms her family occupied were on the first floor, and although not cramped, it wasn’t exactly spacious either. It wasn’t improved by the sheer number of people inside.
The door opened onto a room, a stone fireplace on the opposite wall that was roaring away, a pot balanced on a tripod over it. There was a large wooden table in the middle, chairs on either side, and one at the very top. A woman sat in one of these chairs, white linen in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. She greeted Isobel as she came in and told her to do something. There were bairns everywhere, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. There were a few on the floor playing with wooden figurines, a few at the table also with needles and threads sewing scrap pieces of fabric, and I could hear voices coming from one ae the doors that led away from this room. I observed as Isobel weaved and wound her way over to the fire, avoiding the bairns, and began to arrange pots, pans, and plates.
Time skipped forwards as I lingered near the doorway, and a man appeared. A wee bit older than the woman, who I assumed to be Isobel and the other bairn’s Da, he sat at the head of the table. The fire crackled in the background, and a few candles were lit on the table, although the room was still dull, illuminated only by flickering amber light. The large family of perhaps eight or nine ate dinner together. Isobel appeared to be one of the oldest, with a lad that looked to be a year or two older sitting further down the table. The patriarch of this family eyed his eldest daughter for a few seconds before he spoke. He announced that he and his wife had begun speaking with the Flemings about their son, who was currently a draper’s apprentice somewhere in the town. The mother chimed in, saying that he was a nice, polite lad and would make a good husband. I couldn’t help but cringe at this conversation. I mean I know arranged marriages were all the rage in the past, but actually seeing how these conversations went was a wee bit painful.
Both parents explained that it was a good match, he was a good lad, and that his father had agreed to let them stay in his house after they married. The dowry was yet to be discussed, but it had been mentioned that Isobel would have to give up her own job once she was married. Isobel looked as happy about that as I was. She let her parents speak, praise the virtues of the Flemings and their son, and about married life. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to convince their daughter or themselves. Isobel remained quiet, much like she did as Madam Norna, and nodded her head in agreement from time to time, but I could sense something else, a knowledge that her parents didn’t have. It was like she knew that she’d never have to marry the Fleming’s son, she knew that all this marriage talk would come to nothing. Did she already know about the fate as a Madam? Did she already know that this life her parents wanted for her would be unlived?
Time began to skip forwards, like someone pressing a button on a remote control. Dinner was cleared away, the fire was doused, the family packed into their beds, some of the younger bairns laying out on the floor beside the last embers of the fire. Then the daylight came in, the overcast sky turned from dark to grey, and one by one the family began to leave their home, including Isobel. I followed her through the streets back to the shop, but it was busier this time.
People had emerged from their shops and homes, stopped on their journeys, to witness as the dark parade arrived with their crosses and sermons and death. As we walked through the main town square there was a queue of people outside of one ae the buildings, men dressed in dark, drab coloured clothes directing them where to go. The customer had been right, people were queueing to report witches. That’s when I began to worry. I know the history, people killed for being witches were innocent, or so I used to think. But what about the Madam? If anything looked like witchcraft, it was the antique shop and the woman who ran it. Was that how this story ended? I knew Isobel survived, but what about the old Madam?
Isobel arrived at the empty shop, the Madam and Chronos going about their business. This old Madam Norna was always in the shop during the day, unlike my Madam. Customers came and went, but most were regular customers, buying lace, fabric, or something in the jars and wooden trays behind the counter. When a younger woman ploughed through the front door, wearing distress like a cloak, I guessed that even in the 16th century the shop had special customers. Prior to the invention of business cards, this woman took a quick glance at Isobel before searching around and finding the Madam. When she stated frantically that she needed her help I felt that the walls between this time and mine became thinner.
The customer was invited over to one of the many tables that occupied the shop. I half expected Isobel to retreat somewhere and make a pot of tea, until I remembered that tea wouldn’t be introduced to this country for another century at least. The customer sat on one side of the table, whilst the Madam and Isobel sat on the other. With tears in her eyes, some streaming down her cheeks, the young customer explained that her Ma had just been arrested by the witch hunters as someone had accused her of cursing their cattle and crops. The woman insisted that her Ma wasn’t a witch, that she had a temper and that was all. It’s unusual for me to not believe customers, or to believe they have a misunderstanding. I’d seen what curses could do back in my own life, with the customers a few hundred years down the line. Did this woman know for sure that her Ma hadn’t cursed the cattle and crops? I don’t know much about people who can make their curses come true, but I’ll admit it was unlikely this customer’s Ma was one of them.
Predictably the young woman pleaded with Madam Norna to save her Ma, explaining with the dangerous promise that she’d do anything. My curiosity was peaked at this. It’s not like we’re ever going to get a customer like this in the shop. How would Madam Norna help this lassie and her Ma? I scanned around the shop once more, for the hundredth time, and was genuinely disappointed when I couldn’t see the cabinet that was occupying the front room in my version of the shop. Was there a candle, a pendant, an incense stick that could be lit and erase all charges of witchcraft?
My curiosity quickly turned bitter in my mouth when the Madam explained that she couldn’t help. I wasn’t the only one with a disappointed reaction, and immediately the customer protested, then pleased, then begged, then cursed, then left. Isobel hadn’t said a word, so she was already a better apprentice than I am. After she was sure the customer wouldn’t return, she glanced to the Madam, doubt brimming in her eyes. After a moment’s silence she asked why help had been refused, reasoning that if anyone could help then it would be them, it should be them. They’d helped people out of worse situations.
Old Madam Norna stared at her hands for a while with an unreadable expression. It was easy to think she didn’t care and that perhaps altruism wasn’t necessarily a requirement of a Madam. Like all shops, the right to refuse custom also applied here. Perhaps it was too difficult to interfere or would put the shop at risk of exposure. I’d never seen my Madam refuse to help any customer, and surely this wasn’t the time to refuse. Eventually the old Madam Norna turned her body slightly to face her apprentice, inspecting her, eyeing her like the Madam did to me on the occasions I challenged her.
This Madam wasn’t cross with Isobel, wasn’t angry, her face was calm, controlled. She explained that she couldn’t help this time, as this time was different to others. The people found guilty of witchcraft during these trials were fated to die, and the one thing the Madams couldn’t do was interfere with fate. Protect it, observe it, correct it when it strayed, but not change it. A part of me was curious what happened if a Madam did try to interfere. And the smarter part of me knew it wouldn’t end well.
Isobel accepted this answer with the begrudging resignation of someone with few other choices. Even I didn’t know what I’d do were I in her position. Jail break? Dramatic court scene? Nothing realistic. I remembered what the Madam had told me about fate. That there are fixed points in people’s lives that they must go through. If they stray from the path, then they get corrected by the cogs of the universe. I presumed that death was one of these points. And everyone knows how inescapable death is.
The rest of the day, which passes quickly for me, is spent in uncomfortable silence as the turmoil of the town and the witch hunters seeps through the door in bits and pieces, through whispers and rumours. When Isobel leaves to go home, I don’t follow her this time. I’m almost too scared to.
“Which apprentice are you then? Because you aren’t mine.”
A voice echoes around the shop. I turn slowly to face the old Madam and she’s looking directly at me this time. It frightens me more. I quickly became used to being a fly on the wall, an invisible audience, so being addressed directly unsettles me and it takes me longer than it should to form a reply. I nod wordlessly. The old Madam surmises that I’m from far in the future, and I explain that I’m Isobel’s apprentice. The rest of the story tumbles from my mouth as I ask her how I got back to my own time and out of this nightmare land.
The way she smiled at me reminded me of my Madam, the kind of resigned smile after they understand that they’re dealing with a complete ijit. She tells me it’s simple. Someone will probably have noticed I’m gone by now. If I go back to the spot I arrived I’d probably be retrieved. Incredulously I checked what would happen if no one had noticed I was gone. The answer was that if I wished hard enough, I’d go back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, I didn’t fit, and fate didn’t like people playing fast and loose with time. So just like Dorothy, if I wished to return, fate would be more than happy to help.
I thank the old Madam, glance at Chronos suddenly feeling a pang of missing my version and exit the shop. Time has shifted again; the darkening sky has reversed. The constant heavy cloud that’s dominated the sky since my arrival is now breaking into dawn, slashes of orange and red cutting across the clouds. Hastily I make my way back to the town square, which is deserted so early in the morning. The queue of snitches has vanished, and the red light of the dawn touches the whitewashed houses with their strange windows and crooked floors. I cross the courtyard, trying to remember the exact spot I’d appeared at, when I noticed someone standing in the spot I think is the right one. As I get closer, I recognise Isobel with her linen cap pinned neatly to her hair, and her blue eyes darting between what’s in her hands and the scene in front of her. With a pencil, she’s drawing in a wee leather-bound book, hand sliding over the strangely textured paper.
Curiously I sneak around her and peek over her shoulder. On the page is a smaller version ae the picture that got me here in the first place. Like the first sketching of an artist’s masterpiece. The details, the shading, the buildings, even the shadows that they cast were scrawled in this small notebook. I suddenly begin to feel like I’m falling into this sketch. The yellowed edges of the paper swallow my peripheral, the gentle pencil lines envelope the rest of ma vision.
And when I blink again, I’m still looking at the drawing, only this time it’s the original, with charcoal lines, blurred people, and ominous gallows. There’s a hand resting on my shoulder and somehow I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Madam Norna, my Madam. I turn around slowly, painting still in my grasp, and observe her gentle gaze and breath of a smile tugging at her lips.
I checked if what had happened had just actually happened, but when I glanced out of the shop window and noticed it was dark outside when it’d been midday before, I guessed that it had. That’s the last time I’ll give a drawing in the shop more than a cursory glance. The Madam inquired if I’d seen everything I’d wanted to. I answered that I’d seen more. I glanced down at the painting, and after shuddering visibly, put it back where I’d found it.
As we both wound our way down the pathway to the front counter, I asked the Madam if she missed her life, the one I’d seen, with the big family, small town, and well-meaning if not misled parents. She contemplated a while before answering. Yes and no, she explained. She missed her friends, even her family sometimes, but not the wasted life many other women from her time were forced to have. She’d become more than just a draper’s wife, more than just a daughter, wife, and mother.
The last question I asked was how the Madams had escaped the witch trials. She threw me a sly look, as if the answer was obvious. Why would real witches let themselves be caught?
Historical note – Margaret Aitken was a real woman in the second witch trials in Scotland, which were in 1597, and was only the second of five. Everything I said about her in the story is true, she was accused of being a witch, and in the hopes of reprieve she said she could identify other witches. So she was paraded around Scotland identifying people that were witches. Which was obviously nobody, but the church still took her at her word and people died. It wasn’t until they got to Glasgow that things began to go pear-shaped for Margaret Aitken. The people of Glasgow, savvy as we are, either began to be suspicious or were just cynical from the beginning about her abilities and decided to test her. What would happen was that people would be brought in front of Margaret and she would identify which ones were witches. What the people of Glasgow did was put the same people in front of her twice, dressed differently, and predictably one time they’d be a witch, and the next they wouldn’t be. Once this was revealed this witch trial died down, and unfortunately poor Margaret was killed anyway.
As everyone who’s been listening to my podcasts for a while knows that I’m obsessed with witches, not so much the witch trials, but I do find them fascinating. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity as a Scottish person doing a supernatural podcast to include them in my historical episode of the season. If you are interested in learning more about the history of witchcraft in Scotland then I recommend the Witch Hunt podcast by BBC radio Scotland, which I listened to in preparation for this episode. It was incredibly informative.
Script – Scots (ish)
There’s a picture in the shop. Picture is probably the wrong word, it’s more like a painting. Done in pencil, or charcoal, it has no colour, but the curve of the blackened lines and the smoothing of the shadow give it an enticing depth. I mustae walked past this image hundreds ae times since I started working in the shop, and never seemed tae notice it before that day.
It’s small, barely bigger than an A4 sheet ae paper, kept within a simple, dark wooden frame that doesnae seem as old as the picture itself. There’s no date in the corner, no sneaky artist’s initials hidden within the shaded lines. It’s quite unassuming, quite simple, wouldnae look oot ae place in someone’s home studio, somethin’ they created in their spare time.
For some reason, that day, this picture captures ma attention. It’s set a bit further back frae the path through the antiques. No quite buried, but no in your face either. It’s leaning against a pile ae Good Housekeeping magazines frae the 30s, no quite facing where I’m standing, slightly aff tae the right, towards the door. Carefully I find a place tae put ma foot, between wicker baskets and chairs, so I can lean over and reach the frame. After nearly losin’ ma balance, I finally manage to grasp the frame and return tae the main pathway tae inspect it. The shop has a lot ae paintings, some in big carved frames picturing places and people frae mythology and folklore, others are small, simple, and contain sailing boats bobbing on the soft waters during a sunset. This one is different.
The blackened charcoal lines show a town square, surrounded on all sides by buildings. There’s blurry outlines ae people walkin’ around. The buildings are three and four storeys high, have thatched rooves, and windows wi diamond shaped mullions. On the ootside ye can see the timber frames, the exposed skeleton, and some are sagging in places, or completely crooked, wi it lookin’ like the floor is built on a slope. Some ae the buildings appear tae be shop fronts, more like market stalls, whilst the top floors have washing hangin’ oot, and even the faint ootline ae people. Oot ae all the small details, the one ‘hing that stands oot is the object standin’ in the middle ae this courtyard. One wee ‘hing in a sweepin’ snapshot that simultaneously causes awe and revulsion. It looked like gallows.
I cannae really explain whit happened next. The paintin’ was in the centre ae ma vision, the thatched rooves, the cloudy smudged sky, the blurs ae people, but slowly the edges ae the frame seeped oot, the image enlarged. I felt like I was being swallowed whole, ma body being pulled forwards. The next thing I remember I’m still looking doon at ma hands, except they’re empty, no wooden frame, no charcoal picture. The ground beneath ma feet is also no the wooden boards ae the shop, but condensed mud, dampened by rain, puddles here and there. I look up, expecting tae see the antique chairs and vanity table, even the magazines the picture had been leaning against. Instead I find old buildings, rooves the colour ae the wheat in the fields, the ootsides washed white, skeletal wooden frames showing the crooked floors. I begin tae realise that I’m in the painting. The world here isn’t as black and white as the drawing, everything’s in colour, even the people. There is one difference between whit I was seein’ and the picture. The gallows in the middle ae the square are gone.
I’m no different to anyone else who has a shallow knowledge ae history. Ye think olden times and ye assume dark, drear, filthy conditions where naebody knows how tae smile, and everyone lives in fear ae God. There are people aboot, but they’re dressed in colour, in muted pinks, pungent crimsons, and natural blues. Women have their heads covered, and men wear caps. I feel like I’ve been flung intae a Shakespearean play, except I dinnae know whit part I’m supposed tae play.
When I look doon I’m still dressed in ma usual jeans and t-shirt, but no one’s starin’ at me. In fact, no one’s even lookin’ in ma direction. I’m at a loss on whit I should do. I dinnae know how I got here, so how the hell was I supposed tae get oot. Was this even real? Was I just hallucinating? Fae a start there were noises, a rarity in the shop. People scuffin their leather shoes against the mud, or steppin’ in the puddles left over frae the rain. The thud as a horse walked heavily by carrying a man wearin’ a cloak. The faint creak ae the windaes as they were opened outwards. The smells on the air werenae unpleasant. The scent ae recent rain lingered, a feelin’ ae damp encircling me.
I realised that there was nothin’ else tae do but explore, see if I couldnae find a way back frae whitever was goin’ on. Before I could take a single step I heard a voice frae behind me. I felt like I recognised this voice, I’d heard it before somewhere. Instinctively I turned aroond and saw two well-dressed women walking towards me. One was younger than the other, no much older than me, a wee bit taller. I couldnae see her hair colour because ae the white linen cap that hid it, but her eyes were an eerie shade ae blue, so light they almost disappeared intae the white. I’d seen those eyes before, seen them in that face, seen them frosty, seen them sparkle wi mirth. This young woman was Madam Norna. I’m pretty sure ma mouth was open as the two women walked past me.
The older one I didnae recognise. I couldae sworn she gee me a glance, but it was so quick I may have just imagined it. I felt like callin’ oot, but whit would I say? Whit would I even call her? Was she even the Madam noo? I decided tae follow the two, hopin’ they wouldnae notice. As we moved away frae the square and doon one ae the streets, it became muddier beneath ma feet, ma shoes stained wi brown that I was hopin’ was just mud. The more people I passed the more I began tae realise that I wasnae bein stared at. This place, this town, was obviously in the past, yet I was dressed in thoroughly modern clothes. No one even looked at me.
Tae test ma theory I even went up tae a smart dressed man and spoke tae him, but he walked straight past me like I was invisible. I did try and walk through walls only tae be stopped by them. I was literally an invisible person. At least I could speak, although it wasnae as if anyone could hear me.
I continued tae follow Madam Norna and the older woman until they arrived at a shop front. There was a small section that looked as though it could open, not unlike a market stall. There was no name painted above or on a sign, so I had no idea whit it was. The door was left open after the two women slipped inside. I dinnae know whit shops were like back then, but this is far frae whit I’d ever imagined. And it all looked familiar somehow, felt familiar. The placement ae the walls, ae the wooden counter, the shelves behind it packed wi glass jars and wooden trays labelled wi names I couldnae even read. Frae the ootside I’d have thought it’d be smaller on the inside, but it was cavernous, stretching further back than I’d expected. In one corner there was a loom, a large wooden structure strung up wi hundreds ae wee threads, a small stool placed before it. Deeper inside was a bench, more white thread, and tiny wee boards filled wi pins, the threads winding’ between them in a lace like pattern. The next bench was more practical, filled wi hammers, chisels, and tools I couldnae name, small pins littered everywhere. It seemed that every surface was used tae make a different ‘hing. There were shelves filled wi rolls ae fabric, reems ae lace, and tendrils ae ribbons. It felt like I’d be able tae find anything if I just looked hard enough.
Ma concentration was captured by the two women who were tyin’ each other’s aprons and fixin’ their linen caps. A very young Madam Norna was talkin’ aboot something, although her voice wasnae as soft as I was used tae. She was tellin’ the older woman that “they” were expected in this toon next, and that’d “they’d” arrive soon. No idea who they were, but from the concerned look pullin her brows together I didnae ‘hink they were welcome visitors.
The older woman told her no tae fash, a word ma Grannie used tae use when she’d tell someone no tae worry, and that everythin’d be fine. Young Madam Norna didnae look convinced. The older woman then called her Isobel, instructin’ her tae make up Master McCready’s prescription. Isobel, that was Madam Norna’s real name, this was before she’d become Madam.
I began tae look aboot the shop, at all ae the ‘hings in it, at the walls, the floor, even towards the doorway at the back, and I began tae realise this was the antique shop. Practically the same in everythin’ but contents. When somethin’ black and four legged jumped on the counter top, startlin’ Isobel, I felt ma mouth hang open again. Young Madam Norna scolded Chronos fae geein’ her a fright. Chronos? No, that couldnae be the same cat. Maybe all cats in the shop were called that, like Madam Norna? Somehow I was more inclined tae believe that wee shite was as old as the hills. No wonder he’s so good at cards.
When I saw the older woman moving in my direction I leaped oot ae the way, and again I couldae sworn we made eye contact. She made her way over tae the loom, sat doon in front ae it, and began tae throw the shuttle back and forth, the wooden parts clacking rhythmically. If Isobel was bein’ called by her name, and this was the antique shop, then this woman must be current to the time Madam, right? I say older woman, but she wasnae even that old, probably the same age as the Madam looked, early forties at the latest. She had green eyes, like me, and lightish blonde hair, at least her eyebrows were, the linen cap covered most ae her heid.
I wasnae standin’ roond fae long before someone else came intae the shop. Another woman, a wee bit older, wi’ grey hair peekin’ oot frae beneath her head covering. Isobel greeted her by name and the two starteed the usual chitchat that comes wi bein’ a regular customer. Whilst Isobel was busyin’ behind the counter the older woman began tae muse that a woman called Margaret Aitken was bein’ wheeled intae toon by the witch hunters. She continued that people in the toon were already reportin’ neighbours, family, friends, and more importantly enemies tae the authorities prior tae their arrival. I havenae heard the name Margaret Aitken since I was a bairn in school. She was the heid ae the second wave ae national witch trials in Scotland. After bein accused ae bein’ a witch, she then claimed she could identify other witches, and so the witch hunters began tae travel aroond Scotland getting’ her tae throw other people under the bus on the promise that she’d be pardoned fae doin’ so. She wasnae, and after bein’ exposed as a liar by people in Glasgow, she was killed. She still managed tae throw hundreds ae innocent people ontae the pyre.
Isobel, after handin’ over a linen pouch tae the woman that smelled like dried weeds, asked when this witch huntin’ party was due. In the next two days, according’ tae the woman. Young Madam Norna looked understandably worried, and glanced tae her boss fae reassurance, which came as confidently as it had the first time. Dinnae fash, all will be well.
Time wasnae the same fae me as it was tae the world roond me. One minute it was mornin, and the next dusk had begun tae settle intae the overcast sky. The Madam dismissed Isobel, tellin’ her tae go home, and curious, I followed. Back past the courtyard, through the streets, doon narrow alleys, until we reached a close wi washin’ hangin’ over our heids and bairns playin’ and runnin’ aboot. The damp was worse here, there was a distinct waft ae mould wi’ every breath I took, and the air didnae feel as fresh as it had before. This part ae town was by no means slum like, the ground was relatively clean, the people we passed well turned out. Here it felt like poverty was an ever constant possibility should one ‘hing go wrong, one bad decision made. These people werenae poor, but they were probably barely gettin’ by.
Isobel opened a dark wooden door and stepped inside tae an even darker hallway, barely lit by the dying light ootside. Frae memory she strode her way over tae the stairs and made her way up them. It took ma eyes a while tae adjust, and I may have tripped over a few stairs on ma journey after her. The rooms her family occupied were on the first floor, and although not cramped, it wasnae exactly spacious either. It wasnae improved by the sheer number ae people inside.
The door opened ontae a room, a stone fireplace on the opposite wall that was roarin’ away, a pot balanced on a tripod over it. There was a large wooden table in the middle, chairs on either side, and one at the very top. A woman sat in one ae these chairs, white linen in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. She greeted Isobel as she came in and told her tae do something. There were bairns everywhere, and I dinnae mean that metaphorically. There were a few on the floor playin’ wi wooden figurines, a few at the table also wi needles and threads sewing scrap pieces ae fabric, and I could hear voices comin’ frae one ae the doors that led away frae this room. I observed as Isobel weaved and wound her way over tae the fire, avoiding’ the bairns, and began tae arrange pots, pans and plates.
Time skipped forwards as I lingered near the doorway, and a man appeared. A wee bit older than the woman, who I assumed tae be Isobel and the other bairn’s Ma, he sat at the heid ae the table. The fire crackled in the background, and a few candles were lit on the table, although the room was still dull, illuminated only by flickering amber light. The large family ae perhaps eight or nine ate dinner together. Isobel appeared tae be one ae the oldest, wi a lad that looked tae be a year or two older sittin’ further doon the table. The patriarch ae this family eyed his eldest daughter fae a few seconds before he spoke. He announced that he and his wife had begun speaking wi’ the Flemings aboot their son, who was currently a draper’s apprentice somewhere in the toon. The mother chimed in, sayin’ that he was a nice, polite lad and would make a good husband. I couldnae help but cringe at this conversation. I mean I know arranged marriages were all the rage in the past, but actually seein’ how these conversations went was a wee bit painful.
Both parents explained that it was a good match, he was a good lad, and that his father had agreed tae let them stay in his hoose after they married. The dowry was yet tae be discussed, but it had been mentioned that Isobel would have tae gee’ up her own job once she was married. Isobel looked as happy aboot that as I was. She let her parents speak, praise the virtues ae the Flemings and their son, and aboot married life. I couldnae tell if they were tryin’ tae convince their daughter or themselves. Isobel remained quiet, much like she did as Madam Norna, and nodded her heid in agreement frae time tae time, but I could sense somethin’ else, a knowledge that her parents didnae have. It was like she knew that she’d never have tae marry the Fleming’s son, she knew that all ae this marriage talk would come tae nothin’. Did she already know aboot the fate as a Madam? Did she already know that this life her parents wanted fae her would be unlived?
Time began tae skip forwards, like someone pressin’ a button on a remote control. Dinner was cleared away, the fire was doused, the family packed intae their beds, some ae the younger bairns layin’ oot on the floor beside the last embers ae the fire. Then the daylight came in, the overcast sky turned frae dark tae grey, and one by one the family began tae leave their home, including Isobel. I followed her through the streets back tae the shop, but it was busier this time.
People had emerged frae their shops and homes, stopped on their journeys, tae witness as the dark parade arrived wi their crosses and sermons and death. As we walked through the main town square there was a queue ae people ootside ae one ae the buildings, men dressed in dark, drab coloured clothes directin’ them where tae go. The customer had been right, people were queueing tae report witches. That’s when I began tae worry. I know the history, people killed fae bein’ witches were innocent, or so I used tae ‘hink. But what aboot the Madam? If anythin’ looked like witchcraft, it was the antique shop and the woman who ran it. Was that how this story ended? I knew Isobel survived, but whit aboot the old Madam?
Isobel arrived at the empty shop, the Madam and Chronos goin’ aboot their business. This old Madam Norna was always in the shop durin’ the day, unlike my Madam. Customers came and went, but most were regular customers, buyin lace, fabric, or somethin’ in the jars and wooden trays behind the counter. When a younger woman ploughed through the front door, wearin’ distress like a cloak, I guessed that even in the 16th century the shop had special customers. Prior tae the invention ae business cards, this woman took a quick glance at Isobel before searchin’ roond and findin’ the Madam. When she stated frantically that she needed her help I felt that the walls between this time and mine became thinner.
The customer was invited over tae one ae the many tables that occupied the shop. I half expected Isobel tae retreat somewhere and make a pot ae tae, until I remembered that tea wouldnae be introduced tae this country fae another century at least. The customer sat on one side ae the table, whilst the Madam and Isobel sat on the other. Wi tears in her eyes, some streamin’ doon her cheeks, the young customer explained that her Ma had just been arrested by the witch hunters as someone had accused her ae cursin’ their cattle and crops. The woman insisted that her Ma wasnae a witch, that she had a temper and that was all. It’s unusual fae me tae no believe customers, or tae believe they have a misunderstanding. I’d seen whit curses could do back in ma own life, wi’ the customers a few hundred years doon the line. Did this woman know fae sure that her Ma hadnae cursed the cattle and crops? I dinnae know much aboot people who have the ability tae make their curses come true, but I’ll admit it was unlikely this customer’s Ma was one ae them.
Predictably the young woman pleaded wi Madam Norna tae save her Ma, explainin wi’ the dangerous promise that she’d do anythin’. My curiosity was peaked at this. It’s no like we’re ever gonnae get a customer like this in the shop. How would Madam Norna help this lassie and her Ma’? I scanned roond the shop once more, fae the hundredth time, and was genuinely disappointed when I couldnae see the cabinet that was occupying the front room in my version ae the shop. Was there a candle, a pendant, an incense stick that could be lit and erase all charges ae witchcraft?
My curiosity quickly turned bitter in ma mouth when the Madam explained that she couldnae help. I wasnae the only one wi’ a disappointed reaction, and immediately the customer protested, then pleased, then begged, then cursed, then left. Isobel hadnae said a word, so she was already a better apprentice than I am. After she was sure the customer wouldnae return, she glanced tae the Madam, doubt brimming in her eyes. After a moment’s silence she asked why help had been refused, reasoning that if anyone could help then it would be them, it should be them. They’d helped people oot ae worse situations.
Old Madam Norna stared at her hands fae a while wi an unreadable expression. It was easy tae think she didnae care, that perhaps altruism wasnae necessarily a requirement ae a Madam. Like all shops, the right tae refuse custom also applied here. Perhaps it was too difficult tae interfere, would put the shop at risk ae exposure. I’d never seen ma Madam refuse tae help any customer, and surely this wasnae the time tae refuse. Eventually the old Madam Norna turned her body slightly tae face her apprentice, inspectin’ her, eyein’ her like the Madam did tae me on the occasions I challenged her.
This Madam wasnae cross wi Isobel, wasnae angry, her face was calm, controlled. She explained that she couldnae help this time, as this time was different tae others. The people found guilty ae witchcraft durin’ these trials were fated tae die, and the one ‘hing the Madams couldnae do was interfere wi fate. Protect it, observe it, correct it when it strayed, but no change it. A part ae me was curious whit happened if a Madam did try tae interfere. And the smarter part ae me knew it wouldnae end well.
Isobel accepted this answer wi’ the begrudging resignation ae someone wi’ few other choices. Even I didnae know whit I’d do were I in her position. Jail break? Dramatic court scene? Nothin’ realistic. I remembered whit the Madam had told me aboot fate. That there are fixed points in people’s lives that they must go through. If they stray frae the path, then they get corrected by the cogs ae the universe. I presumed that death was one ae these points. And everyone knows how inescapable death is.
The rest ae the day, which passes quickly fae me, is spent in uncomfortable silence as the turmoil ae the town and the witch hunters seeps through the door in bits and pieces, through whispers and rumours. When Isobel leaves tae go home, I dinnae follow her this time. I’m almost too scared tae.
Which apprentice are you then? Because ye arenae mine.
A voice echoes roond the shop. I turn slowly tae face the old Madam and she’s looking directly at me this time. It frightens me more. I quickly became used tae bein a fly on the wall, an invisible audience, so bein’ addressed directly unsettles me and it takes me longer than it should tae form a reply. I nod wordlessly. The old Madam surmises that I’m frae far in the future, and I explain that I’m Isobel’s apprentice. The rest ae the story tumbles frae ma mouth as I ask her how I got back tae ma own time and oot ae this nightmare land.
The way she smiled at me reminded me ae my Madam, the kind ae resigned smile after they understand that they’re dealin’ wi a complete ijit. She tells me it’s simple. Someone will probably have noticed I’m gone by noo. If I go back tae the spot I arrived I’d probably be retrieved. Incredulously I checked whit would happen if no one had noticed I was gone. The answer was that if I wished hard enough, I’d go back. I wasnae supposed tae be here, I didnae fit, and fate didnae like people playin’ fast and loose wi time. So just like Dorothy, if I wished tae return, fate’d be more than happy tae help.
I thank the old Madam, glance at Chronos suddenly feelin’ a pang ae missin’ my version, and exit the shop. Time has shifted again, the darkening sky has reversed. The constant heavy cloud that’s dominated the sky since my arrival is noo breakin’ intae dawn, slashes ae orange and red cuttin’ across the clouds. Hastily I make my way back tae the town square, which is deserted so early in the mornin’. The queue ae snitches has vanished, and the red light ae the dawn touches the white washed houses wi’ their strange windaes and crooked floors. I cross the courtyard, tryin’ tae remember the exact spot I’d appeared at, when I noticed someone standin’ in the spot I think is the right one. As I get closer I recognise Isobel wi her linen cap pinned neatly tae her hair, and her blue eyes dartin’ between whit’s in her hands and the scene in front ae her. Wi a pencil, she’s drawin’ in a wee leather bound book, hand slidin’ over the strangely textured paper.
Curiously I sneak roond her and take a peek over her shoulder. On the page is a smaller version ae the picture that got me here in the first place. Like the first sketching ae an artist’s masterpiece. The details, the shading, the buildings, even the shadows that they cast were scrawled in this small notebook. I suddenly begin tae feel like I’m falling intae this sketch. The yellowed edges ae the paper swallow my peripheral, the gentle pencil lines envelope the rest ae ma vision.
And when I blink again I’m still looking at the drawing, only this time it’s the original, wi charcoal lines, blurred people, and ominous gallows. There’s a hand resting on my shoulder and somehow I dinnae need tae turn roond tae know it’s Madam Norna, my Madam. I turn roond slowly, painting still in my grasp, and observe her gentle gaze and breath ae a smile tugging at her lips.
I checked if whit had happened had just actually happened, but when I glanced oot ae the shop windae and noticed it was dark ootside when it’d been midday before, I guessed that it had. That’s the last time I’ll gee a drawin’ in the shop more than a cursory glance. The Madam inquired if I’d seen everythin’ I’d wanted tae. I answered that I’d seen more. I glanced doon at the painting, and after shuddering visibly, put it back where I’d found it.
As we both wound our way doon the pathway tae the front counter I asked the Madam if she missed her life, the one I’d seen, wi the big family, small town, and well-meaning if not misled parents. She contemplated a while before answerin. Yes and no, she explained. She missed her friends, even her family sometimes, but not the wasted life many other women frae her time were forced tae have. She’d become more than just a draper’s wife, more than just a daughter, wife, and mother.
The last question I asked was how the Madams had escaped the witch trials. She threw me a sly look, as if the answer was obvious. Why would real witches let themselves be caught?