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    Corrag
    Corrag
    Corrag
    Ebook394 pages7 hours

    Corrag

    By Susan Fletcher

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A novel from Susan Fletcher, author of the bestselling Eve Green and Oystercatchers.

    The Massacre of Glencoe happened at 5am on 13th February 1692 when thirty-eight members of the Macdonald clan were killed by soldiers who had enjoyed the clan's hospitality for the previous ten days. Many more died from exposure in the mountains.

    Fifty miles to the south Corrag is condemned for her involvement in the Massacre. She is imprisoned, accused of witchcraft and murder, and awaits her death. The era of witch-hunts is coming to an end – but Charles Leslie, an Irish propagandist and Jacobite, hears of the Massacre and, keen to publicise it, comes to the tollbooth to question her on the events of that night, and the weeks preceding it. Leslie seeks any information that will condemn the Protestant King William, rumoured to be involved in the massacre, and reinstate the Catholic James.

    Corrag agrees to talk to him so that the truth may be known about her involvement, and so that she may be less alone, in her final days. As she tells her story, Leslie questions his own beliefs and purpose – and a friendship develops between them that alters both their lives.

    In Corrag, Susan Fletcher tells us the story of an epic historic event, of the difference a single heart can make – and how deep and lasting relationships that can come from the most unlikely places.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateMar 4, 2010
    ISBN9780007358618
    Corrag
    Author

    Susan Fletcher

    Susan Fletcher is the acclaimed author of Journey of the Pale Bear; as well as the Dragon Chronicles, composed of Dragon’s Milk, Flight of the Dragon Kyn, Sign of the Dove, and Ancient, Strange, and Lovely; and the award-winning Alphabet of Dreams, Shadow Spinner, Walk Across the Sea, and Falcon in the Glass. Ms. Fletcher lives in Bryan, Texas. Visit her at Susan Fletcher.com.

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    Reviews for Corrag

    4/5

    163 ratings34 reviews

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    • 5/5
      This is an unconventional telling of the Glencoe massacre. Susan Fletcher tells this ugly story in a beautiful and lyrical way.
    • 3/5
      Not a bad book but too rambling and drawn out for its story/message.
    • 5/5
      Susan Fletcher’s new book, Corrag, is historical fiction that does something I love: it takes an historical event and looks at it from a new angle, through the eyes of a new character. The story is based on the 1692 Massacre of Glencoe, where supporters of King William were responsible for the deaths of 78 members of the MacDonald clan, killed because of their delay in pledging allegiance to the new king. Corrag is an English witch who had lived among them, imprisoned in the aftermath of the massacre, and sentenced to be burned alive at the stake.I love the way the story is told. Corrag’s tale makes up the main narrative (and she warns you up front that she tends to talk a lot). At the end of each chapter, Charles writes a letter to his wife back in Ireland. The contrast between Corrag’s stories and the way Charles views her in the beginning is so dramatic! He goes in expecting a wild, godless, savage and to some extent, that’s what he gets. She is completely outside his experience. He takes her dirty appearance as an indication of the condition of her soul. Did he not notice that she is being held in a dungeon, with little food and no access to soap and a bathtub?Read my full review here.
    • 5/5
      4.5 stars rounded up. (As a heads up, the majority of the book is about a young woman's life, with only a small portion near the end directly about the massacre). I read it quite slowly, just a chapter or two and then I'd put it down and come back to it a day or two later. Not because the writing was poor or the subject was boring, but because it felt kind of heavy, both in an emotionally taxing sort of way and in kind of a profound one. I would roll it around in my head and sort of process it, and then bite off another portion. Each chapter is basically a monologue, that alternates between the young woman recounting her tale and the man there to interview her. I haven't read any other like it. The man's chapters are in the form of letters home, but hers are told very similarly only spoken directly to him. I wasn't going to give it 5 stars because I didn't feel like 'this is great I'm really enjoying myself!' while reading it, =D But the heroine especially has such a unique and poetic way of seeing the world, there where so many interesting and beautiful lines. And I believe I will think back on this for a long time going forward, and consider things from this new perspective. Also, I was caught up emotionally by the end. It feels like everything we learned of the characters' lives all led up beautifully to that ending.
    • 1/5
      I can see how this book will appeal to many, but I had a hard time getting invested into the characters. The point of view and diction was shifty and uninteresting to me, and the plot moved slowly and with no clear direction for much of the work. I like the overall idea, but had a hard time staying interested.

      1/5 for a personal lack of interest in the characters and slow/uncertain plot, although kudos for writing about a less covered time period and area of world history and historical fiction.
    • 4/5
      It was the winter of 1692 and a young girl is being held as a witch. She is scheduled to burn as soon as a thaw sets in, but was she really a witch or was she simply a person who had witnessed the massacre at Glen Coe and being silenced. Through the cold winter days she tells her story to an Irish rector, Charles Leslie, who is a firm supporter of the Stuart dynasty and was trying to prove that the English King, George, had a hand in this massacre.Witch Light by Susan Fletcher is an incredibly beautiful yet sad tale. I have never read such rich descriptions of the Scottish Highlands, the author’s wording of how the light plays off the hills, the mists, the colors and scents built strong images in my mind. This was writing that spoke to all five of my senses. Yet, Corag’s life was a sad one, both a granddaughter and a daughter of women who had been killed as witches, she fled England and found herself in a remote valley of the Scottish Highlands. This was a place that she thought she could make her home, she got along with the people and even formed an attachment with one Alastair MacDonald. Little did she know that the MacDonald clan was doomed.This book details an event in history that was fascinating to read of and also led me to investigate further. The Jacobite feeling was strong in the Highlands and led to much confrontation and cruelty. The English soldiers were taxed with establishing loyalty to both England and George I while the Clans supported the Stuart claim. There were many acts of violence and cruelty that eventually led to the uprising that was ended by the Battle of Culloden. Witch Light was an amazing read that shines a light on one of incidents that was used to try and break the hold the clans had on Scotland.
    • 3/5
      Two strands to this story: Corrag is imprisoned and sentenced to death as a witch [although she is a healer] and for warning one Highland Scots faction [MacDonald clan] of the coming Massacre at Glencoe in 1692. She tells of her life and the Glencoe events to Charles Leslie, an Irishman and Jacobite. He has been banished from Ireland for non-support of William as King. Leslie wants to find out if the Protestant king William ordered the massacre and if this information might help in restoring the Catholic King James to the throne. He visits her in the tollbooth and listens to her story. I learned something of Scottish history from this story but I felt it was slow-moving until the Massacre [p.300 or so]. Descriptions of every tiny bit of nature, so many details of Corrag's life, and her rambling, disjointed monologues got tiresome, although well written, even lyrical. It was very atmospheric. She didn't even reach the Highlands until the second half of the book, and the Massacre didn't occur until the last quarter of the book. Leslie describes what he's seen and heard to his wife in letters. We never hear his voice in the interview. Corrag takes a week to reach the Highlands in her narration. Once there, she builds herself a hut, saves the life of the clan chieftain and falls in love with Alasdair Og MacDonald, a married second son. The chieftain did sign an oath to King William but since it was signed after the deadline, it wasn't counted. English soldiers are quartered among the MacDonald clan, then after enjoying their hospitality, fall mercilessly upon them. The book did not really pick up until Corrag's rush to warn the people amid a thick blizzard. This part and its immediate aftermath were very haunting and moving. Leslie's change of heart and the finale were unconvincing to me. For the warning and massacre section I wanted to give it a four, but I'll settle on a 3.5 for the novel as a whole.
    • 5/5
      Corrag, by Susan Fletcher, is the story of a young woman in Scotland in 1692 who is accused of witchcraft for her supposed involvement in a massacre. It took me a little while to get into it, but once I did, I really enjoyed it.

      The style and plot are different from your typical historical fiction novel. Corrag, the main character, is imprisoned and telling her story to an Irish Reverend who wants to learn more about the massacre for political reasons. Corrag's first-person narrative is interwoven with letters from the Reverend, Charles, to his wife in Ireland. During Corrag's narrative she sometimes talks directly to Charles, saying "you", but we never read an actual dialogue between the two of them. It was an unusual and effective narrative style, combining with Fletcher's beautiful, lyrical writing to convey a sense of dreaminess and timelessness.

      The story did not have a grand, sweeping scale, but instead was almost like a snapshot into two people's lives. Both characters grow during the novel and through their stories Fletcher addresses themes of love (of places and people), loneliness, friendship, and kindness. The sense of place is also strong during Corrag's narrative in particular.

      Overall, I thought Corrag was a beautiful book and I highly recommend it.
    • 5/5
      I should probably point out that this is not really crime fiction, but part of my scheme to widen my horizons a little. Although it does focus on a 300 year old mystery - who was responsible for the Glencoe Massacre? It is centred on a period of British history with which I am pretty familiar - the Glorious Revolution of William and Mary and the abdication of KIng James II and VII and the "earming pan baby", the trigger for subsequent Jacobite uprisings, eventually leading to the times of Bonnie Prince Charlie.In prison awaiting her death by burning, Corrag painstakingly takes Irish propagandist Charles Leslie through the background to the Glencoe Massacre in 1692. Leslie is hoping she will provide him with evidence that the massacre was in fact engineered by the "Orange King" and that this will somehow give more fuel to a successful Jacobite Rising.As with all good historically set novels, this challenges what the readers thought they knew about Glencoe and it is no longer possible to see it as an inter-clan warfare. The novel brings the main characters to life.This is wonderfully narrated by Rosalyn Landor, who magically transforms her voice so that you eventually recognise the main characters without a problem.
    • 5/5
      10 audio discsretelling of the 1692 Glencoe massacre"Corrag, an accused witch, relates her story to Charles Leslie, an Irish Jacobite seeking evidence against the king."5* favorite
    • 5/5
      The burning of women labeled as witches is a part of human history that is a horrendous travesty of justice. But prior to reading The Highland Witch I never considered why women were labeled as witches. I had a picture in my head of a number of misunderstood loners who paid the price for the prejudices of the day. Corrag is a loner, of course, but her biggest crime is healing. During that period, prayer was the only acceptable method of curing disease or treating wounds. Since doctor and witch were synonyms, Corrag found herself in situations where she would help heal someone's loved one, only to be chased through the woods by witch hunters. She had to go to the Scottish highlands to find people willing to accept her and to embrace her gifts.What I liked most about Susan Fletcher's novel is the history behind it. I loved what she had to say about prejudice, especially religious prejudice, and I enjoyed learning about the Massacre of Glencoe. I followed up my reading with a quick check of Wikipedia to learn more about the event and was please to see that Fletcher had remained true to the history.Susan Fletcher's prose seems to evoke very polarized opinions among other reviewers. Some people feel she's written the most beautiful book they've ever read, while others feel it's too long and the attention to detail slowed the pace down too much. I am somewhere in the middle. There is no doubt that Fletcher understands how to write to the senses and pay attention to detail. For example:And it snows. From the little window, I can see it snows. It's been months, I think, of snowing – of bluish ice, and cold. Months of clouded breath. I blow and see my breath roll out and I think – look. That is my life. I am still living.This is beautiful writing. But, as her critics have said, detail can also slow down the pace of the story. It's a balancing act. Sometimes she can be somewhat redundant. Months of clouded breath and I blow and see my breath roll out say the same thing in different ways. Although both phrases evoke wonderful images and lead the readers in different directions, they could be combined to make a tighter phrase. This is further complicated by the character, Charles Leslie, who has come to Corrag's cell to learn more about the massacre and in the process is enthralled by Corrag's words. So, as part of the plot, Fletcher has to write words that Leslie can love. I believe she succeeded. Here's another quote often pulled from the novel:Your heart's voice is your true voice. It is easy to ignore it, for sometimes it says what we'd rather it did not - and it is so hard to risk the things we have. But what life are we living, if we don't live by our hearts? Not a true one. And the person living it is not the true you.Those are words anyone can love.Steve Lindahl – author of White Horse Regressions and Motherless Soul
    • 5/5
      Scotland, late 1600s. Corrag’s mother, like her mother before her, has been accused of witchcraft and sentenced to die. Corrag flees into the wilderness, eventually arriving in Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands. Here, among the MacDonald Clan, she finds sanctuary. No pointing fingers, no accusations of ‘witch.’ Her talent for herbal healing is accepted and utilized; her unusually solitary lifestyle and love of nature does not cause suspicion. Yet even as Corrag finds peace, Britain is erupting with political upheaval. William of Orange, a Dutchman, has usurped the throne, and King James has fled to France. Loyalties are fiercely divided - some accept the new ruler, others battle to see King James restored as leader.The MacDonald Clan are Jacobites, supporters of King James. Eventually, though, they are forced to sign an oath swearing allegiance to William. They do so, but miss the signing deadline by six days. And for this, they are savagely murdered by William’s armies. Corrag is aware of the impending massacre, and tries to warn the Clan to flee. A few listen, most do not. And when the soldiers become aware of Corrag’s treasonous act, they accuse her of witchcraft and condemn her to burn.Shackled in chains in a prison cell, Corrag tells her story to Charles Leslie, an Irish minister and Jacobite. Charles is investigating the Glencoe Massacre in hopes that the truth of the event will convince James to fight for his throne. At first, he sees Corrag as what she has been accused of - a witch. But as her story unfolds, Charles begins to see her as the MacDonald clan did - a woman who looks at the world through different eyes, who is self-sacrificing and brave, and who wants only to be accepted and loved. And as Charles’ heart is changed, so is Corrag’s destiny.I LOVED THIS BOOK! With huge love! It’s such an amazing story, all based on historical events and people. The Independent described it as “a poetic intense narrative” and it is, to the nth degree. It’s just lovely, so rich and lyrical. And Corrag may well be one of my favorite protagonists, ever. She’s just amazing, and so well depicted in this book.Also, I truly appreciated how the author portrayed the witch-hunts that took place in Europe during this time. These women were not witches, but were looked on with suspicion and hatred because they, in some way, did not conform to society. In the afterward, the author wrote, “The last execution of a so-called witch in Britain was in 1727. The Witchcraft Act of 1735 put an end to the generations of fear and persecution. Over the previous three hundred years it is estimated that over 100,000 women - mostly knowledgeable, independent, outspoken women - stood trial, accused of witchcraft.” This is my favorite passage from Witch Light, which summarizes the essential theme of the story. Corrag: “I think how we live our lives is our own doing, and we cannot fully hope on dreams and stars. But dreams and stars can guide us, perhaps. And the heart’s voice is a strong one. Always is. Listen to it, is my advice. Your heart’s voice is your true voice. It is easy to ignore it, for sometimes it says things we’d rather it did not - and it is so hard to risk the things we have. But what life are we living, if we don’t live by our hearts? Not a true one. And the person living is not the true you.”
    • 5/5
      This book was beautifully written. The story was about the Glencoe massacre but told from the eyes of Corrag, a healer and independent woman. This was a great historical fiction novel told from a very different perspective. The details were fascinating and the perspectives on life, love and heart.
    • 4/5
      What makes a woman a witch? Corrag is a story about a woman accused of witchcraft and told by an outside who comes to the Highland with his own agenda. I got swept away by the characters and the story, enjoying almost every moment of it.
    • 4/5
      "Corrag" was a lovely, passionate story of the Scottish Highlands. I genuinely enjoyed the rhythms of the writing and the wonderful characters.
    • 3/5
      This book has a lot going for it, yet falls short. I was left feeling its potential was not fully realized, but cannot put my finger on any one thing.The character Corrag and her story is engaging. Although at times, I felt it needed some reining in. The other character, Charles Leslie who tells Corrag's story from another point of view is interesting, but dull when compared to the beautiful brush strokes of language Corrag gives the reader.Unfortunately, his character was not one I ever connected to and lacked the depth and definition I felt he should have had.This was still a good read, but not a great one. It's uniqueness and language is such that I still would recommend it to anyone who is a fan of historical fiction.
    • 2/5
      The writing of this book is very descriptive and sad. I just can not finish it. I tried numerous times but if I can not get into a book after a 100 pages or so, I will most likely not finish it. I count the story to be dark and depressing...I do thank Library Thing for the copy of this book.
    • 4/5
      If you're American, (well, and even if you aren't) it is likely that at some point in your education you end up learning about the Salem witch trials. Though a truly awful time in history, the setting is often used in historical fiction. Ann Rinaldi is one of my favorite authors involving the Salem witch trials, so when I read any book regarding the same topic, I end up measuring it against her. This book was a refreshing look at the witch trials because unlike Rinaldi, Corrag's story did not take place in America. For that reason alone, I found myself going into it with higher expectations. And they were met. I'd definitely recommend this to anyone with interest in the witch trials, but is tired of the same old Salem story.
    • 5/5
      I have only one minor nitpick with this book: too many extraneous and incorrect commas. But since this was an ARC I won from LibraryThing, I can hope that something was done about that in the final book.This book was so well written and felt so real that I had to search out Corrag in Scottish folklore and legend. She certainly felt like she truly lived. Alas, despite the epigraph which made it seem that there's definitely a legend of such a person, I found nothing. Of course the number of books I have on Scottish folklore and legends is vastly outnumbered by the ones I have on Irish folklore and legend. And Internet searches provided only this book and the name of the mountain in Scotland.The story is told by Corrag as she is waiting to be burned as a witch. The year this occurred was not lost on me. Not that the author really had a choice: the slaughter in Glencoe did occur in 1692, as did the Salem witchcraft trials. Corrag does embody one of the types of woman often accused of witchcraft, the feylike wise woman, but it was her alliance with the MacDonalds and the fact that she was able to warn them of the Campbells' treachery that sealed her fate.Perhaps it's the weaving of a fictional character with historical events that made me feel this story was based on real events. Also the language didn't seem at all forced, as is sometimes the case with historical fiction. But it is certainly a testament to the author's talent that I felt I would be able to sit down and speak with Corrag just as Charles Leslie did.
    • 4/5
      I had no idea what to expect from this, except the normal witch-during-persecution-type story. However, I was quite pleased with what I found. Fletcher's prose is poetic and her characters compelling. Corrag's thoughts and wanderings are well written and intriguing, eliciting sympathy from readers. The plot takes place in England and Scotland, which is different and appreciated from the normal setting of colonial America during the witch hunt. The only thing I found tedious was the slow pace in the beginning of the novel and the letters from Charles to his wife, which were often a little too "lovey-dovey" for me, and seemed rather cheesy. However, the novel offered a beautiful romance, great scenery and descriptions, and an interesting plot. Overall, a great read!
    • 4/5
      I wasn’t sure what to expect when I started this book. It’s historical fiction (which I adore), set in Scotland, (a favorite setting of mine), features Highlanders as characters, (see previous), and is about a woman accused of witchcraft. All things I usually enjoy entangled in a story. What I found was something entirely different and not all bad either.Corrag is a woman accused of witchcraft and slated to burn for her wonton ways. It’s 17th Century Scotland and the accusation of witchcraft is common enough for women who have an understanding of medicinal herbs, are outspoken, and in some cases misunderstood. Corrag is a mixture of all the above. She’s a very small person, so small that some think of her as a child and in many ways she is childlike. She was the only daughter of a woman hung for being a witch, has little education, and has been on the run for most of her life in search of a place to feel safe. She finds that place in the Highlands of Scotland. The MacDonald clan, which is settled in the area Corrag decides to call home, welcomes her and she feels finally at peace in the world. When the clan is massacred by English soldiers, she is thrown in jail to await her death. While there, a man named Charles Leslie comes to hear her story and hopefully find out more about the massacre. What he finds is a filthy woman with a tale that will astound him.This story is told by Corrag and is broken up by letters from Charles to his wife. While Corrag’s story does skip around (She fully admits to being a rambler and in some places I felt inpatient with her telling.), but eventually she weaves a tale that makes your heartbreak. It’s not only about the massacre but there’s also an interesting love story between Corrag and Alasdair MacDonald. He’s married and while her heart breaks for him, she refuses to break the vow he has made to his wife. I almost wish that it was a different story but the way Fletcher chose to tell it made sense from the perspective of Corrag. It’s also a story about an incredible woman who showed little fear even when facing her own death. She spent a great deal of her life alone, by choice, and was raised by a mother who told her never to love. Corrag understood why her mother told her that but lets herself experience it anyway. Becoming involved with the clan creates a life she never imagined possible. She stops being this strange figure and starts to see herself in a better light.I enjoyed this book but it does move slowly. I’ll admit to taking a few breaks and moving on to another story while in the midst of this one. I wanted very much to know what happened to the MacDonald clan and Corrag takes her time getting to that part. Yes, I understand this was about her telling her tale so that someone knew her fully before she died, but some of it was too meandering. In the end, I was happy to have finished it. Fletcher is an interesting writer and at times can also be quite lyrical. Descriptions of places and Corrag’s thoughts added wonderful touches to the story.Fletcher is a new to me writer but I plan to look up a few of her previous novels and see how this one compares.
    • 4/5
      Summary: In the cold winter of 1692, a young woman named Corrag is put in prison on charges of witchcraft. She is one of the sole survivors of the massacre at Glencoe, in which soldiers of the Protestant King WIlliam killed many of the men, women, and children of the MacDonald clan in the Scottish Highlands. Corrag is visited in prison by Charles Leslie, an Irish priest and Jacobite who is determined to hear the truth of the massacre. But before she will tell him of the murders, she first tells him the story of her life, marked as it is by loneliness, wonder, and the haunting trouble that comes with the word "witch".Review: I've got this book listed as "historical fiction", but filing it under "poetry" wouldn't be too far wrong. It's got some of the most magical, lyrical prose I've read in a long time, with a strong voice ringing crystal clear throughout. And the thing is: it's not Fletcher's voice. It's Corrag's. Corrag speaks in a rhythm like no one else, a rhythm like poetry, and while it took me a while to get used to it, once I did, it completely carried me away in the story. Mr. Leslie remarks in one of his letters to his wife (which, by the way, are written in a voice no less authentic yet completely different) that he might have called her way of speaking witchcraft, so well did it enchant the listener, and I certainly agree. Corrag's voice is uniquely magical, and what's more, her way of speaking lets us know the character in a way that's above and beyond what her words are saying. That's a fine accomplishment for an author.I enjoyed the prose so much that I didn't even mind that it didn't have so much of a story to tell. Corrag's life story is pretty simple when it's boiled down to its bare elements, and on its own, it doesn't seem like it should be enough to fill 350 pages, even when interspersed with Mr. Leslie's letters. But Corrag weaves it though with enough evocative detail and philiosophical musings that it wasn't until I'd finished the book that I stopped and said "wait, that's all that happened?" Perhaps I can't help subconsciously comparing it to the touchstone of Scottish Highland novels, the Outlander series, in which every possible thing that could potentially happen to a person has happened at least once, thus leaving Corrag feeling a little spare in contrast? But regardless, while I was absorbed in the book, I was thoroughly lost to the outside world, and I will certainly be looking for more from Susan Fletcher. 4 out of 5 stars.Recommendation: While Corrag similar in setting and politics to the Outlander books, it's wildly different in tone... but I think that most people who like the one will appreciate the other. Also good for folks who like books about witch trials, Scottish history, or historical fiction from a unique perspective.
    • 3/5
      I liked Corrag as a character, and found her story the most interesting part of the book for the most part. The writing was very lovely and lyrical, but at times it was just way more than needed to move the story and plot along.
    • 4/5
      [This review refers to the uncorrected proof (advance readers edition)]Well, first, if you’re looking for a book about the Glencoe massacre, this isn’t it. It’s about a couple of people whose lives intersect because of the massacre, one of whom was witness to the massacre. And, to some extent, the massacre serves as the climax of this historical novel. But, seeing that some reviewers are disappointed that the massacre doesn’t happen until 4/5ths of the way through the book, and then it’s over in a relatively short time, I thought it best to let you know this right up front.

      Given all this, “Corrag” is a beautifully presented portrait of a woman living on the fringes of society in the late 1600s, whether in the Marches, the Borders, or the Highlands. Tied to what is somewhat an imagined autobiography are the impressions, by letter to his wife, of an Irish Jacobite minister who initially looks to Corrag as a possible witness to the crimes at Glencoe. The purpose of this story is to bring an historical character out of the mists of the times in which she lived, and Fletcher does a fine job of this. If you love history, both cultural and political, you will probably love this. And the beautiful prose and descriptions of the settings make this lesson in history and human nature a joy to read.

      If you do read this book, set aside enough time to read part IV in one sitting and just let it rush over you.

      Os.

    • 4/5
      Corrag is about the events that took place on February 13, 1962. On this day the MacDonald clan from Scotland was killed by King Williams’s soldiers who at the time were staying with the MacDonald clan. The clan felt they were save from the soldiers since they had sworn on oath to the king, previously their alliance was with King James the VII who was in exile. Corrag was a young woman who lived on the outskirts of the clan, she had fled to the north when her mother was accused and killed for witch craft. She became a friend and a healer to the members of the clan. She also was in love with the leader’s son. Corrag was able to warn the clan that the soldiers had orders to kill them allowing many of the clan to escape. The story is told by Corrag from her prison cell to Charles Lester who was a Jacobite (one in support of James VII) supporter. The story is written in a very wordy and poetic manner. I admit at times it bothered me but in retrospect I don’t think I would have enjoyed the story so much if it wasn’t written this way. As a reader you along with Charles Lester come to sympathize with Corrag. Just because she is different in the way she looks and lives doesn’t mean she should be feared and hunted. She is probably one of the gentlest and kindest souls one would ever meet. I enjoyed the conversations between Corrag and Charles and I enjoyed the letters that Charles wrote to his wife explaining his changing views of Corrag and comparing Corrag to his wife. I thought the part where he talked to his wife about losing their daughter was important but didn’t realize until the end the significance of why he wrote of this. In the end he was obviously protecting Corrag like she was his own. This was a well written book that I would recommend to others.
    • 2/5
      Basic plot run down: after witnessing the events at the Massacre at Glencoe, Corrag is accused of witchcraft and imprisoned. Irish minister (and secret Jacobite) Charles Leslie comes to interview her in hopes of finding proof that King William was truly behind the massacre. The narrative is told mostly from Corrag's point of view as she recounts her life before and leading up to the events at Glencoe. This alternates with Leslie's point of view as he writes home to his wife in Ireland recounting his reactions to Corrag's tale.I liked the idea of seeing Glencoe from Corrag's viewpoint (supposedly she did exist), but unfortunately the narrative just didn't work, at least for me. Much too much time is spent as Corrag recounts the times before she came to Glencoe, let alone her time assimilating into the community and the relationship with Alasdair. The massacre itself didn't even happen until well past page 300 and by then there were only another 50 or so pages left to tell the story. As for Leslie's letters home to his wife? Over and above the *yawn* factor, I was scratching my head at some of the information he was willing to put to paper in such dangerous times.Yes, the writing was lovely, yes it was lyrical - but the repetition may drive you nuts (it did me). I'd have been better off dragging Jennifer Roberson's Lady of the Glen out for a reread (don't let that stupid WTF were they thinking cover from Kensington scare you). Library only, then buy it if you love it. That said, everyone else seems to love it to bits so it must be me again.
    • 1/5
      I love historical fiction and have always been interested in the topic of witch hunts however, I found this book very difficult to get into. The characters were hard to follow and the language was well, borring. This was by now means a page turner. I thought it was going to be similiar to The Heretics Daughter but no such luck.
    • 2/5
      Unfortunately, I could not just get "into" Corrag, despite my love of historical fiction, Scotland, and witches. I can deal with stream of consciousness, but something about the protagonist's narrative is off-putting. I suppose I felt the narrative was going nowhere, and languished page after page. The epistolary inserts were the only enjoyable parts for me.
    • 5/5
      Corrag, the titular character of Susan Fletcher's work, has been haunted by the word "witch" her entire life. The moniker has often been accompanied by scowling glances and thrown stones. It is the word that took her mother from her and sent Corrag fleeing to Scotland from the English town where she was born. Small but hardy, young Corrag survived and made a life for herself among the MacDonald clan but when politics, oaths, and kingship debates bring a bloody massacre to Glencoe, the word witch places Corrag behind bars sentenced to death.It is in her jail cell that the story of her past unfolds, told to Charles Leslie an Irish propaganda writer who seeks Corrag's testimony about the 1692 massacre. Her narrative spills out in a stream of consciousness flashback that is interspersed with Leslie's reflections on her words told in letters to his wife in Ireland. This alternative method of storytelling may be off putting to some readers, but I found it to be a clever and unique way of slowly revealing the personalities and stories of both Corrag and Leslie.Susan Fletcher did a great job with this work. The setting of Scotland in 1692 was wonderfully detailed and the facts blended beautifully with fiction. There was plenty of foreshadowing but the pacing of the story was still well done. I loved the characters and especially appreciated how the relationship between Corrag and Leslie changed over time even though there was never any direct dialog between them. Filled with action, emotion, politics, and history, Corrag is a remarkable work of historical fiction that fans of the genre will not want to miss.
    • 1/5
      i received this book as part of the early reviewer's program at library thing. first let me say that i enjoy reading about the 1600s, and witchcraft and was looking forward to sinking myself into corrag. i even liked the title (cora, her mom + "hag" or witch...clever.) however, i very much agree with soniamarie, in that the book bored me to tears. i didn't like the style of writing, all monologue and rambling, total stream of consciousness about not much at all. i did enjoy charles' letters to his wife, but it wasn't enough to save it for me. i seem to be in the minority; maybe it's just the author's style that i can't get past.

    Book preview

    Corrag - Susan Fletcher

    Corrag

    Susan Fletcher

    FOURTH ESTATE • London

    For those who were there

    I had an unexpected request the other day; there had been two bad landslides where the bulldozers have been working on the slate banks. Someone…said it was because the workmen had been disturbing the grave of Corrag. Corrag was a famous Glencoe witch…One point of interest about her is that, in spite of reputed badness, she was to have been buried on the Burial Island of Eilean Munda. It was often noticed that however stormy the sea, or wild the weather, it habitually calmed down to allow the boat out for a burial. In the case of Corrag the storm did not cease till finally she was buried beside where the road now runs. By the way, in the Highlands, islands were used for burial very widely. Remember wolves remained here very much later than in the south.

    Barbara Fairweather

    Clan Donald Magazine No. 8

    1979

    More things are learnt in the woods than in books. Animals, trees and rocks teach you things not to be heard elsewhere.

    St Bernard (1090–1153)

    Table of Contents

    Cover Page

    Title Page

    Dedication

    Epigraph

    Map

    Letter

    One

    I

    II

    III

    Two

    I

    II

    III

    IV

    Three

    I

    II

    III

    IV

    V

    VI

    VII

    VIII

    IX

    X

    Four

    I

    II

    Five

    Letter

    I

    Afterword

    Acknowledgements

    Author’s Note

    Also by Susan Fletcher

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Map

    image 1

    Letter

    Edinburgh

    18th February 1692

    Jane

    I can’t think of a winter that has been this cruel, or has asked so much of me. For weeks now, it has been blizzards, and ice. The wind is a hard, northern one – it finds its way inside my room and troubles this candle that I’m writing by. Twice it has gone out. For the candle’s sake I must keep this brief.

    I have news as foul as the weather.

    Edinburgh shivers, and coughs – but it whispers, too. In its wynds and markets, there are whispers of treachery – of a mauling in the brutish, Highland parts. Deaths are often violent there, but I hear these were despicably done. A clan, they say, has been slaughtered. Their guests rose up against them and killed them in their beds.

    On its own, this is abhorrent. But there is more.

    Jane – they say it was soldier’s work.

    Of all people, you know my mind. You know my heart, and if this is true – if it was soldiers’ hands that did this bloodiness – then surely it was the King who ordered it (or I will say the Orange, pretending one, for he is not my king).

    I must leave for this valley. They call it wild and remote, and it’s surely snowbound at this time – but it’s my duty. I must learn what I can and report it, my love, for if William is behind this wickedness it may prove his undoing, and our making. All I wish, as you know, is to restore the true King to his throne.

    Pray for my task. Ask the Lord for its safe and proper outcome. Pray for the lives of all our brothers in this cause, for we risk so much in its name. Pray, too, for better weather? This snow gives me a cough.

    The candle gutters. I must end this letter, or I shall soon be writing by the fire’s light, which is not enough light for my eyes.

    In God’s love, and my own,

    Charles

    ONE

    I

    ‘The Moon is Lady of this.’

    of Privet

    Complete Herbal

    Culpeper 1653

    When they come for me, I will think of the end of the northern ridge, for that’s where I was happiest – with the skies and wind, and the mountains being dark with moss, or dark with the shadow of a cloud moving across them. I will think of how it is when part of a mountain brightens very suddenly, so it is like that rock is chosen by the sun – marked out by sunshine from all the other rocks. It will shine, and then grow dark again. And I’ll stand with my skirts blowing, make my way home. I will have that sunlit rock in me. I will keep it safe.

    Or I’ll think of how I ran with the snow coming down. There was no moon, but I saw the morning star, which they say is the devil’s star but it is love’s star, too. It shone, that night – so brightly. And I ran beneath it, thinking let all be well let all be well. Then I saw the land below which was so peaceful, so white and still and sleeping that I thought maybe the star had heard and all was well – no death was coming near. It was a night of beauty, then. For a while, it was the greatest beauty I had ever seen in all my life. My little life.

    Or I will think of you.

    In my last, quiet moments, I will think of him beside me. How, very softly, he said you…

    Some called it a dark place – like there was no goodness to be found inside those hills. But I know there was goodness. I climbed into its snowy heights. I crouched by the loch and drank from it, so my hair was in the water, and I lifted up my head to see the mist come down. On a clear, frosty night, when they said all the wolves were gone, I heard a wolf call from Bidean nam Bian. It was such a long, mournful call that I closed my eyes to hear it. It mourned its own end, I think, or ours – as if it knew. Those nights were like no other nights. The hills were very black, like they were shapes cut out of cloth, and the cloth was dark-blue, starry sky. I knew stars – but not as those stars were.

    Those were its nights. And its days were clouds and rocks. Its days were paths in grass, and pulling herbs from soggy places that stained my hands and left their peaty smell on me. I was damp, peat-smelling. Deer trod their ways. I also trod them, or nestled in their hollows and felt their old deer-warmth. I saw what their black deer-eyes had seen, before my own. Those were its days – small things. Like how a river parts around a rock and joins again.

    It was not dark. No.

    I had to find it – darkness. I had to push rocks from their resting place, or look for it in caves. The summer nights could be so light, so full of light that I curled up like a mouse, hid my eyes beneath my hand so I might find a little dark to sleep inside. It is how I sleep, even now – tucked up.

    I will think this way. When my life is ending. I will not think of musket shots or how it smelt by Achnacon. Not of bloodied things.

    I will think of the end of the northern ridge. How my hair blew all about me. How I saw the glen go light and dark with clouds, or how he said you’ve changed me, as he stood by my side. I thought this is the place, as I stood there. I thought this is my place – mine, where I was meant for.

    It was waiting for me, and I found it, in the end.

    I was always for places. I was made for the places where people did not go – like forests, or the soft marshy ground where feet sank down and to walk there made a suck suck sound. Me as a child was often in bogs. I watched frogs, or listened to how rushes were in breezes and I liked that – how they sounded. Which is how I knew what I was.

    See? Cora said, smiling.

    She was for places too. She trawled her skirts over mud, and wet sand. She was brambled, and fruit-stained, and once she lived in an old waterwheel, upon its soft, green wood. She said she was lonesome there – but what choice did I have? Tell me? Not much. Some people cannot have a peopled life. We try for it. We go to markets, and say hello. We help to bring the hay in, and pick the cider apples from their bee-noisy trees, but it takes very little – a hare, or a strange moon – for hag to come. Whore. They raise an eyebrow, then. They call for ropes to bind us, so that we grow so sad and afraid for our small lives that we turn to empty places – and that makes them say hag even more. She lives on her own. Walks in shadows, I hear…But where else is safe? No towns are. All that was left for Cora was high-up parts, or sunken ones. Places of such wind that trees were bent over, and had no leaves. Normal folk did not go there, so we did – her, and I.

    I’ve lived in caves, and woods. My feet have been torn up on thorns. When I crept into towns for eggs or milk they crossed themselves, spat. I know spitting. I know its sound, too, like retching, like a cat pulling up the bones of a bird it ate up whole, all sharp parts in with feathers. They hissed, we know what you are…And did they? They thought they did. In my English life, they took old truths – my snowy birth, how I liked marshy places – and pressed them into proper lies, like how they saw me lift a shoulder up and turn into a crow. I never did that.

    I have lived on open land. On moors, in windy weather.

    I’ve lived in a hut I made myself, with my own hands – of moss, and branches, and stone. The mountains looked down on me, as I curled up at night.

    And now? Now I live here.

    In a cell, with chains.

    It snows. From the little window, I can see it snows. It’s been months, I think, of snowing – of bluish ice, and cold. Months of clouded breath. I blow, and see my breath roll out and I think

    look. That is my life. I am still living.

    I like it – snow. I always did. I was born in a sharp, hard-earth December, as the church folk sang about three wise men and a star through their chattering teeth. Cora said that the weather you are born in is yours, all your life – your own weather. You will shine brightest in snowstorms she told me. Oh yes…I believed her – for she was born in thunder, and was always stormy-eyed.

    So snow and cold is mine. And I have known some winters. I’ve heard fish knock beneath their ice. I’ve seen a trapdoor freeze so it could not go bang, though they still took the man’s life away, in the end. Once, in these high Scottish passes, I made a hole in the drifts with my own hands, and crept inside, so soldiers ran past not knowing I crouched in it. This saved my life, I think. I’m a hardy thing. People die from the cold, but I haven’t. I’ve not had blue skin, not once – a man said it was the evil fire in me that kept me warm, and bind that harlot up. But it was no evil fire. I was just born in snowy weather and had to be hardy to stay living. I wanted to live, in this life. So I grew strong, and did.

    Winter is an empty season, too. Safer. For who wanders out on frosty nights, or drifty white mornings? Not many, and none by choice. In my travelling days, with my grey mare and north-and-west in my head, I might see no one for days. Just us, galloping. Me and the mare, with snowflakes in our manes. And when we did see people, it was mostly desperate ones – gypsies, clawing for nuts, or broken men. Drunks. A thief or two. And foxes, running from the hunter’s gun with that look in their eyes – that wild, dread look, which I know. Once I found some people kneeling in a gloomy Scottish wood – they took Christ’s body into their mouths, and a priest was there, saying church things. I watched, and thought, why here? And at night? I did not understand. I have never understood much on God, or politics. But I know these kneeling folk were Covenanters, which is a gunpowder word. They could be killed, for praying – which is why they did it in woods, at night.

    And I passed a lone girl, once. She was my age, or less. We met in some Lowland trees, in the early hours, and we slowed, brushed hands. We looked on each other for a moment or two, with be careful in our eyes – be safe, and wise. For who else is as hated as we are? Who is more lonesome, than ones called witch? Briefly, we both had a friend. But we were hunted creatures – her, the fox and I. So I took the path she had come by, and she took my old path.

    Witch. Like a shadow, it is never far.

    There are other names, too – hag, and whore. Wicked piece. Harlot is common, also, and such names are too cruel to tie upon a dog – but they’ve been tied, easily, on me. I drag them. Vile matter once, like I was a fluid hawked up in the street – like I was not even human. I cried after that. In the market, once, Cora was Devil’s hole.

    But witch…

    The oldest name. The worst. I know its thick, mud-weight. I know the mouth’s shape when it says it. I reckon it’s the most hated word of all – more hated than Highland, or Papist is. Some won’t say William like it’s poison – I know many people don’t want him to be King. But he is King, for now. And I was always witch.

    That December birth of mine was a troubled one. My mother bled too much, and cursed, and she roared so long that her throat split in two, like it can in painful times. Her roar had two voices – one hers, and one the Devil’s, or so said the folk who heard it from the church. I fell out to this sound. I slipped out upon the glinting, blue-eyed earth, beneath a starry sky, and she laughed. She wept, and laughed at me. Said my life would be like this – cold, hard, outdoors.

    Witch she said, weeping.

    She was the first to say it.

    Later, at daybreak, she gave me my proper name.

    I say it – look. Witch…And my breath clouds so the word is white, rolls out.

    I have tried to not mind it. I’ve tried so hard.

    I have tried to say it does not hurt, and smile. And I can reason that witch has been a gift, in its way – for look at my life…Look at the beauty that witch has brought me to. Such pink-sky dawns, and waterfalls, and long, grey beaches with a thundering sea, and look what people I met – what people! I’ve met some sovereign lives. I’ve met wise, giving, spirited lives which I would not have done, without witch. What love it showed me, too. No witch, and I would not have met the man who made me think him, him, him – all the time. Him, who tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. Him who said you…

    Alasdair.

    Witch did that. So maybe it’s been worth it all, in the end.

    I wait for my death. I think him, and wonder how many days I have left to think it in. I turn my hands over, and stare. I feel my bones under my skin – my shins, my little hips – and wonder what will happen to them when I’m gone.

    I wonder plenty.

    Like who will remember me? Who knows my true name – my full one? For witch is what they will shout, as I’m dying. Witch as the dark sky is filled with fiery light.

    It is like I have lived many lives. This is what I tell myself – many lives. Four of them. Some folk have one life and know no other, which is fine, and maybe it’s the best way of it – but it’s not what I was meant for. I was a leaf blown all over.

    Four lives, like there are seasons.

    Which was the best of them? I would live them all again, for all had their goodnesses. I would like to be back in the cottage by the burn, with cats asleep in the eaves. Or to walk in the thick elm wood – which was dappled, full of grubs. Cora called it a healer’s friend, for she found most of her cures in there. It was where I undid my shoulder for the first time, and where the best pheasants were for catching and eating, which sometimes we did.

    Or I would like to be back in my second life. My second life was like flying. It was empty lands, and wind, and mud on my face from her hooves. I loved that grey mare. My fingers were knotted into her mane as she galloped over miles and miles, snorting and throwing up earth. I held on, thinking go! Go!

    But it’s my third life I would like again, most of all. My glen one. I lived it too briefly – it was too short a life. Yet it’s the best I’ve known – for where else did I see my reflection and think you are where you should be – at last. And where else were there people who did not mind me, and let me be? They pressed a cup into my hand, said drink. They left hens by my hut, as thank you, and raised a hand in greeting, and I had craved that all my lonesome life. All I’d deeply wanted was love, and human friends. To stand in a crowd and think these are my kind. My people. That was my third life.

    And my fourth one is this one – in here.

    Yes I’m for places, mostly. But it is because they made me so – the ones who eyed me, and did not trust herbs or a grey-eyed girl. They made me for places, by hissing witch. They sent me up, up, into the airy parts.

    But the truth is that I wish I could have been with people more – with those Highlanders who never minded filthy hands, or tangles, or my English voice, and who slowed to look at geese flying south, like I did.

    So I am for places – wind, and trees.

    But I am for good, kind people most of all.

    Like Alasdair. Cora. The Chief of that clan, who is dead now.

    I think, too, of Gormshuil. I think of how she was, the night before the murders – how she put her hand near my cheek, but not on it, as if she was afraid of touching me. She said there is blood coming – but she said more than that. A man will find you. A man will come to you, and see your iron wrists, your small feet. He will write of things – such things…

    What were those words? I brushed them away. I thought it was henbane talking, or some half-had dream. I saw Gormshuil in the falling snow, and shook my head. No…My wrists? I looked down upon them and thought they are pink, and flesh. They are fine. It was the herb – surely. Her teeth were green with it.

    But blood was spilled, in Glencoe, like she said. Blood did come.

    A man will find you.

    I hear these words, now.

    Who says them? I say them. I say Gormshuil’s words, and I remember how she looked at me. I see the deep lines on her face which loss had made, and the scalp beneath her snow-wet hair. I wonder if she is also dead. Perhaps she is. But I think she still lives on that blustery peak.

    A man will find you. Iron wrists.

    Some things we know. We hear them, and think I know – like we’ve always had the knowledge waiting in ourselves. And I know. She was right. There was a light in her when she said iron wrists – a wide, astonished light, as if she’d never been so sure. Like how a deer is, when it lifts its head and sees you, and is scared – for it knows you are real, and breathing, and that you’ve crouched there all this while.

    So I wait. With my shackles, and dirt.

    I wait, and he comes. A man I’ve never met is riding to my cell.

    When I tuck up in the straw, I stare into the dark and see my other lives. I see the bogs, the glen. But I also see his face.

    His spectacles.

    His neat, buckled shoes, and leather case.

    The Eagle Inn

    Stirling

    Jane

    I write this letter from Stirling. It is poor ink so forgive the poorer hand. Forgive, too, my bad humour. My supper was barely a crumb and my bed is damp from the cold, or the previous sleeper. What’s more, I was hoping to be further north by now, but the weather remains unkind. We’ve kept to the lower roads. We lost a horse two days ago, which has stolen hours, or days, from us. It’s a wildly unsatisfactory business.

    Let me go back a while – you shall know each part, as a wife should.

    I left Edinburgh on Friday, which seems many months gone. I am indebted to a gentleman who lent me a sturdy cob and some funds – though I cannot give his name. I hate to withhold truths from you, but it may endanger him to write much more; I will simply say he is powerful, respected and sympathetic to our cause. Indeed, I glimpsed an embroidered white rose on his coat, which we all know says Jacobite. We drank to King James’ health and his speedy return – for he will return. We are few in number, Jane, but we are strong.

    My thoughts were to make for a place named Inverlochy, on the Scottish north-west coast. It has a fort, and a settlement. Also it is a mere day’s journey from this ruined Glen of Coe. The gentleman assured me that its governor, a Colonel Hill, is kindly, and wise, and I might find lodgings with him – but I fear the snow prevents this. I travel with two servants who speak of thick blizzards on the moor that lies between the fort and here. They’re surly men, and locals. As I write they are in the town’s dens, drinking. I don’t trust them. I’m minded to insist we take this snowy route, no matter – for we have ridden this far through such weather. But I cannot risk another horse. Nor can I serve God if I perish on Rannoch Moor.

    So tomorrow, our journey takes us west. Inverlochy must wait.

    We are headed, now, for the town of Inverary – a small, Campbell town on the shores of Loch Fyne. The coast has a milder climate, I hear. I also hear the Campbells are a strong and wealthy people – I hope for a warmer bed than this one that Stirling provides. There, we might fatten our horses and ourselves, and rest, and wait for the thaw. It sounds a decent resting place. But I must be wary, Jane – these Campbells are William’s men. They are loyal to him, and support him – they would not take kindly to my cause. They’d call it treachery, or worse. So I must hide my heart, and hold my tongue.

    Wretched weather. My cough is thicker and I worry my chilblains might come back. Do you remember how I suffered from them in our first married winter? I would not wish for them again.

    I feel far from you. I feel far from Ireland. Also, from like-minded men – I write to them in London, asking for their help, in words or in funds to assist me, but I hear nothing from them. Perhaps this weather slows those letters. Perhaps it slows these letters to you.

    Forgive me. I am maudlin tonight. It is hunger that troubles me – for food, for warmth, for a little hope in these hopeless times. For you, too, my love. I think of you reading this by the fire, in Glaslough, and I wish I could be with you. But I must serve God.

    Dear Jane. Keep warm and dry.

    I will endeavour to do the same, and shall write to you from Inverary. It may be an arduous journey, so do not expect a letter in haste. But have patience, as you have other virtues – for a letter will come.

    In God’s love, as always,

    Charles

    II

    ‘The black seed also [helps] such as in their sleep are troubled with the disease called Ephilates or Incubus, but we do commonly call it the Night-mare.’

    of Peony

    There are ones who wait for me. I know this. I know, too, who they are. They are the ones whose hearts were like my own – wild, unfettered hearts. Cora’s heart was wildest – rushing like clouds can do – and she waits. So does her mother, who I never met, but I know she is tiny and has pondweed in her hair. Mrs Fothers, too – for I once saw her looking at the evening star, and she wept at it, and I thought her heart is like my heart. So I reckon she is waiting.

    There is the plum-faced man. It was his heart which killed him in the end, I think, for it was a tired heart when I knew him – and that was years ago. Also, the boy I found crouching, who feared the baying dogs, waits patiently for me. So does our pig. I wish I’d never killed him, with his velvety snout, but I did, and now he waits for me as if he never minded dying. He waits, flaps his ears.

    And my mare. My speckled, big-rumped mare who I loved, and loved, and loved. I see her looking at me and I think I love my speckled mare.

    And them – of course. The MacDonalds of Glencoe – or the ones I could not save. The newly dead Scots men who wait in a line with their fresh musket wounds sealed up, and their skin uncut, and they will say my name as I cross to them – not witch, not Sassenach.

    These are the lives I’ve loved, who are dead now. Their bodies are worms – but their souls are free, and in the other, airy world. The realm, Cora called it – where we all go, one day. Our death is a door we must pass through, and it seemed a good thing by how she spoke of it. Calm, and good. Part of life – which it is.

    But I was wrong to think it was calm. Or I was wrong to think it always happened that way. I was a child, with a child’s mind, and I thought all deaths were by lying down, closing our eyes, and a sigh. I thought that sigh would be lifted by the wind, and carried. But no. Only when I killed the pig and it squealed did I think it can hurt. Be bloody, and sad. That was an awful lesson I learnt. After it, I was wiser. Cora said my eyes turned a darker shade of grey.

    It can hurt. Yes.

    And I have seen more hurtful deaths than I’ve seen gentle ones. There was the nest which fell, and all those little feathered lives were licked up by the cats. In Hexham, a man was put in stocks and had stones thrown at him until he was dead – and for what? Not much, most likely. Also, there was Widow Finton, and I don’t know how she died, but it took a week to know that she was gone – they smelt the smell, and found her. A door we must pass through? I believe that part. I believe it, for I have seen souls lift up and move away. But not all deaths are peaceful. They are lucky, who get those.

    We do not get them. Peaceful deaths.

    Not us who have hag as a name.

    Why should we? When they say we worship the devil and eat dead babes? When we steal milk by wishing it? We have no easy ends. For my mother’s mother, they used the ducking stool. All the town was watching as she bobbed like a holey boat, and then sank under. I imagined it, in my infant days – out in the marshes with the frogs and swaying reeds. I crouched until my nose was in the water and I could not breathe, and I thought she died this way, and would it have been a simple death? A painless one? I doubted it. I coughed reeds up. Cora grabbed me, cursed me and plucked frogspawn from my hair.

    Then there are the twirling deaths. Like the ones the Mossmen had. I saw these ones – how they put the rope on you like a crown that is too big, and your hands are double-tied. Like you are King, the crowds hiss or cheer. And then there is the bang, and maybe some go quickly but I’ve seen the heels drumming, and I’ve thought what sadness. What huge sadness there is, in the world.

    And pricking. A dreadful word.

    That is a fate they save only for us – for witch and whore. I’ve been afraid of the pricking men for all my life, for Cora was. She shook when she spoke of them. She made herself small, and hid. Part of a witch does not bleed, she whispered – or so the church says. So men prod our women with metal pins, seeking it…I asked her how big? Are the pins? And she held out her hands, like this – like how fishermen do, when telling their tales.

    A door, Cora said, that we must pass through.

    Yes.

    But why these ways? Why with such pain in them? I wish we could all find a high-up place with clouds and air, and close our eyes, and find a heavy sleep – and that would be our deaths. No ropes or pins. No crowds, or spit. Just the wind, and a knowing that the ones you love are safe, that you’ll be remembered fondly, and all’s as it should be.

    That’s the death I’d choose.

    But I cannot choose. It is chosen for me. It has been picked, like fruit.

    Why fire?

    I asked the gaoler this. I asked the man who came to see my wounds, and staunch them up. I asked the one called Stair who has always hated witch. I said why fire? Why? Please not by fire…And Stair watched me for a while, through the bars. I pleaded with him. I rambled, begged. But he picked at his teeth, turned slowly on his heel and left this room saying, I think fire is best. Such cold weather…It would warm the town up – don’t you think?

    I shook the bars. I banged my iron wrists on the bars, and kicked at my pail. I screamed not by fire! Not that way! And come back! Come back! Come back! Come back!

    I shook, and shook.

    I heard my words echo and his footsteps die away.

    So it will be by fire. Outside, they gather wood. I hear them drag it through the snow, and the nails going in. Inside, I look at my skin. I see its scars and freckles. I feel my bones, and I roll the skin upon my knees so that the bones beneath them clunk – back and fro. I follow where my veins run along my arm and hands. I touch the tender places – inside my legs, my belly. The pink, wrinkled skin between my toes.

    The realm. Where they are waiting.

    I love them – Cora, the plum-faced one.

    But I do not want to join them. Not yet, and not this way.

    I am fretful, tonight. Afraid.

    Tonight, I breathe too quickly. I walk up and down, up and down. I run my fist along the bars so that my knuckles hurt, and bleed – but the hurt says I am living, that my body still has blood in it and works like it should do. I talk to myself so my breath comes out – white, white – and when I sit, tucked up, I hold my feet very tightly and I rock myself like children do when they have plenty on their minds. I try to say hush now to me, to calm me, but it doesn’t work. I press my eyes into my knees, and tell myself that my mother is waiting for me, and my mare, the Highland men, and won’t it be nice to see her again? So hush now, I say, stroking myself.

    I have been so afraid that I have retched on me. It made me cry. In my hair, and on my skirts, and I looked upon my hands, and when the gaoler saw it he spat, said ah the devil’s in you, right enough. Foul wretch…like he was all manners himself, all clean – and he’s never been clean. I tried to tidy myself. I tried to quieten down – but I was so afraid, that night. I cried, and hugged myself, and vomited again.

    Above all, I’m afraid of

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