Witch! The Alison Balfour Story
(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.
SCENE 1 - MEET THE BALFOUR’S
Village of Ireland, Parish of Stenness, Orkney Islands. Friday, December 2, 1594. Supper hour. We find ourselves at the Balfour family home. Their house is a simple abode, cozy and warm, the furnishings being a mix of old and new. Their home consists of one room with two partition walls which separate both the toilet and the bed of Alison and Abraham from the rest of the house. The children sleep on two small beds along the wall nearest the fire. The table (which, when not in use stands against the wall) occupies the centre of the Balfour household at this hour as Alison, husband Abraham Taillifeir, and her two children, ten year old William and seven year old Anna are just finishing supper.
"But I don't like turnip, mother..." moaned seven year old Anna, eyeing the offensive vegetable on her plate.
"Anna. You need to eat your supper. All of it. You know there are families in Stenness who have nought to eat tonight." Alison Balfour's tone was patient and understanding.
"But - "
"No buts!" Abraham growled (for he was somewhat less patient than his wife). "Ye heard your mother...now eat your turnip!"
Anna let out a whimper, but said no more.
The old man meanwhile turned to ten year old William. "Pass the bread, will ye." He indicated the basket of thick-slice black bread at the boy's elbow.
William Balfour, keen and bright-eyed, with a mess of straw-coloured hair, did as requested.
"Tomorrow, when we go to market," Abraham continued, selecting a slice of bread and tearing it in half before setting the basket aside, "I'm going to introduce you to Isaac Rendall and inquire about him taking you on as an apprentice carver. Would you like that?"
"I would," answered William, somewhat uncertain.
Alison smiled as she watched her son. William had always been polite to Abraham. And Abraham, even though he wasn't the boy's father by blood (he being her second husband after the untimely demise of her first husband), was always tender with the boy.
"Very good," were his words now as he glanced at his wife who, at thirty-nine, was more than forty years his junior (he having turned eighty-one in August). "We shall go and speak with Isaac Rendall and with any luck he will have you working for him within a fortnight."
William nodded as Anna wrinkled her nose. "So Will's going to cut up dead animals all day? That's going to be his job?"
Abraham stared at the young girl and opened his mouth to reply, but Alison stayed him with a patient smile. "William is going to work and learn a trade and this is going to allow him to have a source of income when he's older."
Anna looked at her mother. "What's income?"
"Money," Abraham answered gruffly, growing increasingly impatient with the girl's seemingly endless questions.
"Oh."
Alison exchanged a glance with her husband and resumed her eating.
"What have we got for dessert tonight?" asked Abraham after a time, as he finished the last remnants on his plate.
"I've made biscuits," said Alison. "Biscuits with honey."
William’s face seemed to brighten. “Biscuits? Really?”
Alison nodded, smiling broadly.
"You outdo yourself, Alison,” said Abraham.
"I do the best I can, dear husban-"
A loud and harried knocking at the door stopped her short.
"Who can that be now..." Abraham gumbled, pushing back his chair and rising slowly from the table, his arthritic fingers giving him cause to wince in pain as he did so.
Alison remained seated and watched in silence as the time-trodden man ambled purposefully to the door.
"Edward Bellenden," Abraham announced, eyeing the well-dressed, but humble looking man with gentle eyes and trim, tidy hair who stood in the doorway.
"Good evening,” said the man, removing his hat and bowing to the three seated at the table, “I'm sorry to disturb you during your supper, but it's Rachel.” He looked past Abraham to Alison who watched the man from her seat at the table. “She's not been well,” he continued, “for two days now. Terrible pain in her stomach."
Abraham, though long accustomed to folk arriving on his doorstep at odd hours to call on his wife for her remedies, opened the door fully and admitted the man (albeit with some reluctance).
"Evening, Mrs. Balfour," said Edward, bowing ever so slightly as he took a step toward to the table. He gave a friendly nod to William and Anna who sat motionless at the table.
"Evening, Mr. Bellenden," said Alison, getting up from the table. "I only caught a bit of that...your wife, she's having stomach pain?"
Edward replied with a grim nod. "Yes. Terrible pain."
Alison’s expression showed concern. Lady Rachel Bellenden had suffered from several ailments in the past year. First her feet had gone numb. Some dandelion tea had aided that. Next her vision had gone blurry. A strict diet of lamb and raw carrot had absolved her of that. Stomach pains…yarrow? St. John’s Wort? There were a number of remedies for a number of afflictions…
“Which side of her stomach is giving her pain?” she asked as Abraham muttered something under his breath and shuttered the door to the cold wind outside.
“Her left side,” Edward replied.
This is good news, thought Alison. If he had answered “her right side”, it may already be too late. The humor of the right stomach had a tendency to leak when affected and she had seen several men, woman, and children succumb to the affliction in her time.
“The left side…how long has she been having this pain?”
Alison was diligent in asking as many questions as possible so as to ascertain the most plausible malady. To prescribe a remedy without fully knowing the malady was a grave oversight and one that might carry terrible consequences.
“For two days now,” answered Edward.
Alison’s questions continued for several more minutes until finally, as Abraham felt himself about to doze off in his chair by the fire, he heard her say: “I suspect she may have a blockage. This should be relatively easy to remedy with some ground flax and herb of Ulster. I’ll prepare a draught now and she can take it immediately. Expect her pain to continue for a further twenty four hours, but to abate with each hour. If she is still not improved by tomorrow evening, come and see me again.”
Edward Bellenden nodded with an air of obedience, his cap clasped between his hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Balfour. Thank you. The people of Stenness owe you much.”
Alison, not one to accept compliments, allowed herself to smile. “Anyone in my position would do the same. I do only what I do because God has bestowed this gift unto me and it is therefore my duty to share its rewards. Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair she had vacated at the table, “while I mix the draught. William,” she added, turning to her son, “see that your father and Mr. Bellenden each get a few biscuits.”
SCENE 2 – THE WRATH OF EARL PATRICK STEWART
Saturday December 3, 1594. Morning. Kirkwall Castle. The Great Hall. Earl Patrick Stewart is fuming mad, stomping back and forth while his wife, Margaret, and all of the castle staff and courtiers, seated and standing throughout the hall, are forced to remain and hear what the earl has to say.
“And the fact that someone tried to poison me in this very castle...my castle!” the Earl seethed, face crimson, eyes aglow, “tried to poison me...it’s treachery!”
“Dear brother,” John interjected,
raising a hand, “if I may - ”
“You may not! No one is to speak.” He paused to let his words sink in. “You will hear me now,” he said, his tone threatening. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I shall find the man, woman or child responsible...and after a visit to my dungeons, I shall have them beheaded for all to see. Furthermore, I shall have the head of this cretin posted on a pike at the gates of Kirkwall so that it will never again be assumed that Earl Patrick Stewart was a soft and easy man. I’ve been too good to all of you.”
The Earl’s wife, Margaret, long accustomed to her husband’s angry and violent outbursts, watched the others (somewhat less accustomed) grow more anxious by the minute.
The silence was deafening now as Patrick scanned the room, waiting and daring any to defy him. The silence remained and not one spoke. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to those assembled in the Great Hall, Patrick ordered them all out and they left in a