Samhain – 1618
At the very edge of England, the fishing village of Port Gwyneth faces the Atlantic Ocean. A small cluster of wooden houses nestle in a sheltered cove, on the edge of the sea. Boats rock at anchor on the land side of a dilapidated jetty.
At the top the cliffs, high above, snow begins to fall from the sky.
Nearby, Joan Kemp kneels at the cliff’s edge searching amongst the scrub for plants that can make and mend. Knapweed and Feverfew, good for those bruised from a fall, or to heal wounds. As flakes hit her face and melt, she looks up.
Astonished by a fiery light streaking over the horizon, she cries out to her husband Clem, ‘Look above, tis’ stardust! dancing in’t sky!’
They watch the sparkling object as it approaches until, for a brief moment, a bright glow blinds them. As it fades, it reveals (on what was, a split second ago, bare ground) ancient lichen-covered standing stones.
‘What were that?’ asks Joan in a tremulous voice, ‘a sign from God?’
Clem, for a moment, is taken aback, but his mind insists on finding a rational explanation for this strange event. ‘Tis’ just the moonlight sparking on the old stones.’
‘What old stones?’ Joan queries. Then, as if a long-lost memory has returned, she answers herself, ‘Oh yes, the old stones, been here for centuries, just playing tricks on us. Must be some old magic still in them.’
They go back to their foraging, but the snow falls more heavily, impeding their work. ‘This is no good,’ moans Clem, ‘we should never have come out on a night as foul as this.’
‘You know,’ replies Joan, ‘the book sayeth the best time to gather is in moonlight, for efficacy.’
For just a moment, her mind tricks her into hearing an infant’s cry, and she says, ‘Did you hear that?’
‘I hear nothing,’ replies Clem, ‘but, the blasted wind. I tell e a blizzard be coming, we should be away to our beds!’
Joan dismisses the noise as an illusion, but hears the cry again, louder this time, cutting through the sound of the storm.
‘You must have heard that!’ she cries, fighting her way through the forming snow drifts, letting the bawl guide her towards the standing stones.
‘Impossible,’ shouts Clem, stumbling after her, ‘it cannot be.’
They run as best they can through the deepening snow, in the cry’s direction. Every so often they stop, listening for the location of the next cry. Clem sweeps the flaming torch he carries, in an arc, back and forth, to identify the source of the howl.
Suddenly, amid the stones, the fire illuminates something wriggling in the snow.
‘God’s heart!’ exclaims Clem, ‘Damn me, It’s—’ ‘A baby! Oh my Lord!’
They fall to their knees, beside a child, crawling in the snow.
‘It looks all right. No cuts or bruises,’ remarks Clem, ‘but naked, poor thing. So cold and stiff. Did someone leave her here to die?’
‘How could anyone be so cruel? It’s so tiny!’ replies Joan.
Clem stands, removes his coat and passes it to her to swaddle the baby in.
Joan cuddles the baby, and it stops crying, as it gulps large breaths in her arms. She whispers, ‘There, there, little baby. You’re safe now.’
Back in the wooden shack they call home, the two surrogate parents dote over the baby in Joan’s arms, wrapped in a warm blanket.
‘Oh, she’s perfect, Clem, look at her beautiful red hair,’ says Joan, kissing the child. ‘God only knows how she has suffered.’
‘Aye, she is such a beauty, one can scarce believe she is natural, she’s so perfect. She’s like something a sculptor would carve from marble. She looks right with you though… like you were made to be her mother.’
Joan sighs, and Clem is concerned, ‘I didn’t mean… I just meant… well… maybe God has seen to put right our past misfortunes.’
Headstones in the village cemetery attest to the various tragedies that had befallen the Kemps. For they have lost more than one child at birth or to influenza. Now left childless, with no hope of conceiving again.
‘Aye,’ says Joan, with a tear in her eye, ‘God seems to sow and reap as he pleases. Having taken from us, perhaps he has given for a change.’
The baby wriggles, thrusting its hand out from the surrounding blanket.
Joan smiles, contentedly, ‘Now, I can be sure that my knowledge will not die with me. I will teach her the cures and the ways of magic.’
‘What she we call this little miracle?’ asks Clem.
‘Aye, tis’ from the bible. It means, my delight is in her.’
Back at the stones, a distraught mother, filled with remorse and regret, searches for the baby she has abandoned. She wishes she could go back to the time before she succumbed to the charms of Ned, before he pushed her down on the deck of his boat and forced himself upon her. She wishes she had ignored her mother’s demands, Don’t let a small mistake ruin your life, be rid of it. It’ll be fine, someone will find it. But what if they didn’t? It could freeze to death. Or be taken by animals. Why had she been so stupid, so heartless? Is she too late to redeem herself?
With relief, she spots the child. It has crawled beneath one of the stones, to shelter from the snow.
She looks down at the baby’s face, peaceful and angelic, in sleep. In every regard, identical to the baby cradled at this moment, less than a mile away, in Joan’s arms. ‘Please forgive me,’ she weeps, ‘I promise I will never leave you again. We cannot stay here, though, for there is only contempt for a fallen woman, in this place.’
Hundreds of miles away lie the Highlands of Scotland, shaped by ancient ice flows, where snow-capped mountains loom over black lochs. Fraser Campbell stalks across the moor above his village. A tall man with a pale face and a long nose. Sharp tongued, a rogue, a thief, a lying drunken rascal. Only someone fooled by the warmth of alcohol, would venture out on a night like this.
Icy flakes scourge his face and he stumbles in the dark, squelching through bog and thickets of heather. He shakes his fist at the snow filled night sky above, ‘Whit’s this? tis’ lik’ th’ heavens hae opened!’ he cries, angrily.
He thinks bitterly of the wife who has thrown him out of his home. His only skill is catching fish, but has upset the whole community, with his untrustworthy behaviour. Many are the times he has cried ‘ere they’re’ whilst pointing in the opposite direction to an incoming shoal, so that his own boat could land the biggest catch.
A fiery light illuminates the black landscape, and for a moment he is awestruck.
Then he shakes his head with contempt, ‘Whit dae ah care fur omens o’ doom?’ he mutters, ‘Ah hate th’ world ‘n’ a’ body in it, let thare be an end tae it all!’
He briefly regrets this statement, as he feels a sharp pain between his ribs. Looking down, he sees the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest. He turns to see the face of his killer. His own face.