The Hanging of Margaret Dickson by Alison Butler Page A

cold dirk twists beneath her breast.
    Agnes sucks in her breath; her eyes narrow as Patrick’s baby begins to cry, instinctively she turns to look. She’s the image of her father, the man she should’ve married. The taste of sour bile fills her mouth. She swallows it away and proceeds towards the infant, but before she gets there the voices begin.
    â€˜Not now,’ she groans. Agnes doesn’t want to hear the voices. But they keep talking to her in a jabbering incessant fashion, conjuring up images of death and vengeance, violating her mind. She screws up her eyes into narrow slits hoping they’ll go away, but they won’t leave her alone. And so, she sways to and fro, humming aloud.

    ***

    The baby cries all the way home. The child was as good as gold at the harbour with the fisher lassies, but as soon as she’s alone with her mother she wails and screeches, grating on Maggie’s nerves. So Maggie tries singing, rocking, and even pulls funny faces at it, but nothing seems to work. Near the harbour wall, she grinds her teeth together and tries to control a building rage that bubbles inside. How she longs to be free again, to walk barefoot upon the rocks, the sea breeze in her hair.
    The midwife calls again at the crack of dawn, carrying a linen bag full of bannocks and a bone teething ring. Anna sits upon the old woman’s knee by the hearth, fidgeting and cooing in her strong arms. Maggie observes the woman with curious eyes and notices how the child seems content, not at all like when she holds her. It’s as though when the child is with her, it senses her anxiety and discomfort.
    Jean clears her throat. ‘When’s Patrick home?’
    â€˜Don’t know, a few days, next week. Who knows,’ replies Maggie. The cooking pot is bubbling over; she stirs it and throws a dirty spoon on the table. ‘Have you anything for a broth? I’ve nothing here except turnips.’
    â€˜I’ve kale and some herbs, and you are more than welcome. I’m sure your man will be back soon with a bag full of coins.’
    â€˜I hope so. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s a part of my imagination.’
    The midwife laughs. ‘Do you know Sarah Clerk from the village? She had a baby around the same time you had Anna?’
    Maggie nods. ‘Aye, I know of her. How is she? Isn’t she the lass with the fancy house?’
    Jean continues. ‘Aye, that’s the one. She’s not good; I was there at the birth and she had an awful time. In labour three days, she was, and when the bairn came it had a swollen head. And now folk say it’s a changeling.’ Jean crosses her arms.
    Maggie shudders. She’s taken every precaution to avoid fairies entering her home and spiriting her baby away. She’s even got Patrick to place a large iron pin in the baby’s cradle and warned him not to cut the baby’s nails or hair.
    â€˜A changeling? That’s terrible. Why do they think it’s a changeling baby?’
    Jean shrugs. ‘The child’s an imbecile and has distemper in the brain. The father wants to be rid of it and his family are urging him to bury it in a shallow grave come Martinmas so that the fairies will take it away. But his wife, Sarah will not hear of it. She doesn’t believe that when they dig it up a few days later, the real baby will be returned.’
    â€˜I don’t blame her, Mrs Lewis from the dame school in Haddington buried her baby because she thought it was a changeling, and when they dug it from the ground, it was dead.’
    Jean’s brows lower as though she’s deep in thought. ‘Aye lass, I understand. But it was the changeling that was dead not her real baby.’
    â€˜What is she going to do then?’
    â€˜She thought about throwing it in the linn, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Do you know the foxglove plant with the pretty purple flowers?’
    â€˜Aye, I’ve seen