Page 117 of The Changeling

‘They hate what they fear, and they kill what they hate.’

I remembered the queen, and how Bothwell had ravished her and Moray had betrayed her, because they could not bear her to rule them. I remembered how Pastor Knox had married a girl, young enough to be his daughter, not caring that she had been forced. I remembered how Mam had stood up and shaken back her hair, and all the men had fallen silent, staring at her. Lord Patrick had been so eager for her, he had untied his breeches and laid bare the most vulnerable part of himself before her. And when she had fought back, he had hunted her down and watched her die in agony.

I marvelled at a woman’s strange powers, to so unman a man.

Was that why so many men feared us? I wondered.

Was that why they called us witches?

I had other memories, though. A pageboy who had wrestled away a pistol held to the queen’s pregnant belly. The young men at Lochleven Castle who had risked everything to help her escape. The loyal lords who had died fighting for her, even when it was clear all was lost.

Lord George, who had tried to save my mam. My father, who had flown to my side and helped me witness her last fierce, defiant minutes of life. And Robbie, who had taught me to ride and to dance, who had given me my dog, who had searched for me when he thought I was lost, who had dreamed of me and dared to kiss me, who had risked everything for me.

Not all men were witch-hunters.

The faery maidens wept as they gently wrapped my mother in a shroud and pinned the folds close with a hawthorn barb. I knelt beside them, laying one hand on her breast. I had hardly known her, I still did not understand her, but she had been my mother and she had given me up, so that I could be happy and free and grow strong in the sunshine. Tears welled up in my eyes.

The faeries began to sing, their voices interlacing, soaring high and thrumming low.

You are going home this night to your sleep,

You are going home to the summer land,

You are going this night across the strand,

You are going home this night to the deep.

Sleep now, dear one, away with your sorrow.

Sleep now, dear one, and away with your hurt.

Sleep now, dear one, let your body be dirt.

Sleep now, dear one, we’ll meet on the morrow.

My tears flowed fast now, and Robbie put his arm about me and drew me close. Spindrifts of mist twisted through the icy cavern, taking form, then dissolving. An old woman with a waterfall of white hair, six little girls holding hands like a chain of paper dolls, Mam smiling at me, whispering, My lambkin …

Warriors, unearthly blue, leaping and stamping. An old woman with blowing grey hair and a golden cradle in her arms, willingly falling back into fathomless water. A little girl singing in the language of birds, a robin on her finger. A queen cutting her own throat so her people could be free.

Nan, silver hair floating about her wrinkled face.

She raised her finger and drew on my brow. One downward stroke, five swift sideways lines. Ruis, the rune for the elder tree, she who guards the end and the beginning of all things, the dark moment of crossing and the bright threshold to transcend.

The gossamer mist spun over me, cold as the first frost of winter, sweet as the scent of bluebells, and slowly flowed up the willow stair and was gone.

‘They go now to the Summerland,’ my father said. ‘Their souls will rest and heal there, before they are reborn. May we meet again in our next lives.’

He made a gesture like a V on his forehead.

My father was bent and lame, dressed in dirty rags, leaning on a stick, and yet I had never seen a kinglier sight.

‘Faeries have souls?’ I faltered. So long I had thought myself soulless.

He looked at me in amazement. ‘Even stones have souls, child. Do you know so little?’

I bowed my head. ‘I fear so.’

‘Well, what else could we expect, giving you to mortals to be raised? You have much to learn. Time enough for that tomorrow. Take your man home and feed him up, he’s half-starved.’