Midwife of the Blue Ridge (2 page)

feathers. But today, Andy Scougle could see the girl was being

carnaptious.

Andy stood at the window of his shop and watched Maggie

trounce down the muddy thoroughfare, greeting every person

she met with a defiant, direct gaze. Grinning from ear to ear, she

clearly derived pleasure from their anxious hand gestures of pro-

tection and fervent clutching of talismans. The people of Black

Corries believed Maggie Duncan possessed the evil eye.

The talk began years before, when Andy’s brother- in-law,

Alan Cameron, returned from Culloden mortally wounded and

in the company of a strange child.

“Her own folk are all dead—the whole of Bailebeg is wiped

out,” the villagers said. “Send the lass away, Hannah. She must

be bad luck.”

But Hannah paid them no heed. Mercifully, Alan had not lin-

gered long. At his passing, grief-stricken Hannah’s attachment to

the little girl intensifi ed, as did the villagers’ fear.

“First her own folk and now your Alan—mind, Hannah,”

10 Christine

Blevins

they said. “She’s bad luck, that one. She’s no place here in Black

Corries.”

As village midwife, Andy’s sister was accustomed to easing

dreads and fears. Gentle words and reason were the remedies she

used to soothe and placate her neighbors.

“What blether. If not for wee Maggie, my Alan would have

died a cold and lonely death.” Hannah insisted God’s hand was

at work the day Alan brought Maggie home.

Andy agreed. His childless sister needed the company of a kin-

dred spirit. Little Maggie possessed high intelligence and a natu-

ral aptitude. Most important, she exhibited true empathy for

those in need of care. So, as their mother had taught Hannah,

Hannah taught Maggie, and Maggie learned. The lass became

Hannah’s shadow, attending the births, nursing the sick, tending

the injured, and laying out the dead. Just as Andy’d seen his sister

grind the ingredients of a remedy together in her big stone mortar,

Hannah gradually mixed Maggie Duncan into village life.

Under Hannah’s tender nurture, Maggie’s apprenticeship pro-

gressed smoothly. She learned to find, grow, and prepare the

agents required for Hannah’s vast store of medicines. She studied

their healing properties, learning the best ways to prepare tinc-

tures, decoctions, teas, and poultices. Years passed, the girl’s

skills improved, memories faded, the villagers mellowed and al-

lowed Maggie to treat their ailments. But then, no one expected

Hannah to be struck down by illness.

At first, Hannah insisted her cough was but a pesky remnant

from a bout with the croup. Andy wished it were so, but he’d

seen the disease too often—the continuous, paroxysmal cough,

the thick, blood-streaked sputum, random fevers, weight loss—

the symptoms of consumption were, unfortunately, very familiar

to him.

Consumption
, Andy thought,
such an apt name.
The same

disease that consumed his mother had been slowly consuming his

sister Hannah for two years, and he knew nothing could stop it.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
11

Fear and ignorance triggered virulent whispers as it became

evident their beloved midwife was afflicted with the tubercular

disease. “Alan Cameron died of rot . . .” Heads wagged. “And

now Hannah’s cursed with the Graveyard Cough. That Duncan

lass brings bad luck to everything she casts her evil eye upon.”

Hannah’s condition worsened and so did the rumors. Maggie

was at fault when Widow MacKay’s hens stopped laying. When

Liam Menzie’s milch cow went dry, he laid blame on “Dark

Maggie.” Maggie’s nickname, benignly referring to her thick

black hair, had taken on a more sinister connotation.

The doorbell jangled and Maggie stepped into Andy’s shop.

“Och, bloody hell!” she swore. Striding right past Andy without

seeing him, Maggie marched straight to the counter, where his

wife, Emma, worked. Maggie proffered a cloth sack to be fi lled.

“Two pounds of meal and none of yer guff, Emma Scougle.”

“I’ve done tolt ye afore, Dark Maggie—we dinna want yer

custom here. G’won . . . away with yer bad eye.” Emma spat on

the floor as a mea sure of protection against any sort of retalia-

tory curse and turned her back.

Maggie grabbed Emma by the shoulder and spun her around.

“Shut yer wicked gob, Emma Scougle. Ye didna have a care

about my evil eye Monday last when yer lad Colm needed his

head stitched, did ye now? Fill the sack, Emma. Hannah’s wait-

ing on her breakfast and I’m owed.”

“Emma! For shame!” Andy inserted himself between the

squabbling women.

“But Dark Maggie’s cursed poor Hannah with her evil eye!”

“I’ll not suffer such blasphemous talk in my shop, wife. It’s

not for the likes of you to question God’s will.” He pushed his

wife toward the door. “To kirk with ye . . . pray . . . seek forgive-

ness for yer less than Christian behavior.”

Though Emma shot him a look that illustrated Andy’s per-

sonal definition of the evil eye, she obeyed his order and left the

shop.

12 Christine

Blevins

“Emma’s easily swayed by the opinion of others,” Andy said

as he prized the sack from Maggie’s clenched fist. “I’m sure she’s

contrite and means you no harm.”

“That may be”—Maggie shrugged—“but there is little ill- said

that is not ill-taken.”

“Ah, Maggie, still, ye ought know better than to tangle with

folk that way.”

Andy scooped far more than two pounds of oatmeal into the

sack. He always held a soft spot in his heart for Hannah’s found-

ling, watching her grow to become the most attractive young

woman in the glen. A solid, buxom lass, Maggie stood taller

than most women. She was blessed with a clear olive complex-

ion, free of the blemishes and pockmarks that so often marred a

pretty face. Maggie bore a foreign cast to her features that set her

apart, and Andy was of a mind there might be a bit of the gypsy

traveler in Maggie’s lineage—her liquid, dark eyes held the wis-

dom of a thousand years.

Under normal circumstances the local lads would be coming

to blows vying for Maggie’s favor, but folk believed a woman with

the evil eye held the power to curse a man with impotence. The

threat of being so eye-bitten was too much for simple highland

lads to overcome. At twenty-one years of age, Maggie Duncan

was doomed to lead a spinster’s life.

Andy handed over the sack of meal. “I stopped by yestreen to

sit with Hannah for a spell.”

“Is that so? I must’ve been out gatherin’. She said naught to me.”

“Hannah’s not faring well, is she, Maggie?” Andy’s eyes

squinched as if he were wincing with pain, casting a pall over his

eyes. “I’ve never seen her lookin’ so peellie-wallie. She’s naught

but skin and bone, a mere shadow of the woman she once

was . . . and she’s worried about ye, lass, aye . . . rightly so.”

“Och, the two of ye . . .” Maggie scowled and draped her

woolen shawl over her head. “No need to waste yer worry on me.

I can fend for myself all right.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
13

“Ye can pretend otherwise, Maggie, but ye ken as well as I

there’s danger in this evil-eye blether. Hannah’s right to be wor-

ried. What’s to become of you once she’s gone?”

“Hannah’s no goin’ anywhere, Andy. She’s had bad spells

afore and she’s always pulled through.”

“Ye think she’ll pull through?” Andy brightened. “Fine weather’s

a-comin’. Hannah’s always been a great one for spring.”

“Aye, mark my words, Andy, she’ll soon be on the mend.”

H

Maggie eased the door open and slipped inside the cottage. It

was dead quiet. She removed her wooden clogs, tiptoed over to

the bedstead, and heaved a sigh of relief. Although sleeping

Hannah labored for every breath, she was still breathing.

On the decline for months, Hannah had reached the fi nal and

most agonizing stage of the disease, and Maggie could only

dread the inevitable—her world without Hannah Cameron in it.

She stoked the fire, prepared a pot of parrich for their breakfast,

and then settled down on a small stool near the hearth. Rather

than worry over Hannah struggling for every breath, Maggie

leaned elbows on knees and rested chin on fists to contemplate

the oatmeal breathing in the pot. She watched the thickening

meal rise and bellow upward, anticipating the puff of steam ex-

ploding from the center of each bubble.

Hannah’s weak, wheezy voice broke the silence of the room.

“Yer mind is always chasing mice, lass. When are ye goin’ to the

village?”

“A good long sleep ye had, eh?” Maggie smiled over her shoul-

der, gave the parrich one last stir, and pulled the pot from the

flame. “I’ve been to the village and back again.” Spoonfuls of

cooked oatmeal plopped into a wooden bowl. Maggie added a

splash of thick cream and a dollop of heather honey.

Hannah’s fever-glazed eyes glittered like bright buttons from

within their sunken hollows. “How d’ ye fare today?”

“Och! I wish ye could have been there to see it. Emma Scougle

14 Christine

Blevins

and I near came to blows over the meal she owed.” Maggie set-

tled Hannah into a sitting position. She took up the bowl and

spoon and sidled onto the bed. “Andy got between the two of us

and sent the auld besom to kirk with a fl ea in her ear. She’s right

now begging Our Lord for His forgiveness.”

“Mmmph! Our Lord best think twice. Emma gains much plea-

sure holding a stick over others.”

Maggie popped a spoonful of oatmeal into Hannah’s mouth.

“Aye! Ye must eat—a few spoonfuls at least. It’s no wonder they

say I’ve the evil eye. Look at ye—skin and bones!”

“Listen to me, lass,” Hannah managed between spoonfuls.

“I’ve been thinking . . . after I’m dead, ye need to leave Black

Corries. Leave this place and find yerself a good man.”

“Stop yer claverin’ and eat!”

“Aye . . . a big braw man is what ye need, Maggie. A man t’

protect ye and keep ye warm at night.”

Maggie laughed. “I’ll tell ye, if it’s a good man I’m after, I’ll

surely need t’ leave Black Corries. If only ye could see them scurry,

Hannah—so frightened I might cast a wicked spell upon their

pitiful parts.” She sighed, wistful. “Och, if only I could . . .”

“
Fiech!
There’s not a pair of bollocks worth cursin’ in this

village. America . . .” Hannah closed her eyes and nodded.

“Aye . . . yid be bound t’ find a real man in America . . .”

“
America!
Are ye daft?” Maggie took the dirty dish to rinse in

the washbasin.

“Did I ever tell ye, Maggie, how Alan and I once thought to

emigrate as bond servants to Virginia?”

“Virginia! Ah, g’won . . .” Maggie shook her head in dis-

belief.

“We were young and full of our own dreams then.” Hannah’s

words gasped out in staccato bursts. “Alan said we can slave our

whole lives for the laird, with naught to show for it . . . or slave

four years in Virginia and have a wee patch of land to call our

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
15

own in the end. I was game. We had no weans—only our own

selves to look after . . .”

“So what happened? Why did yiz not go?”

“Och . . . the call to arms . . . Culloden . . .” Hannah gave a

feeble wave of dismissal and fell into a violent fit of coughing and

retching.

“Enough palaver.” Maggie rushed to fill a kettle with water.

“I’m fixing ye a cup of comfrey tea. ’Twill help to heal the lesions

in yer lungs.”

“Pah! Keep yer comfrey tea,” Hannah rasped between coughs.

“The only thing t’ help me is a generous sprinkle of monkshood

on my parrich.”

Maggie turned about-face. She marched back and plunked

down onto the bed. Monkshood was the deadliest poison in

Hannah’s medicine cupboard.

“Ye ken well I canna bear it when ye blether on so . . .”

“But I’m weary . . . so weary of the pain. It’s a merciful thing,

helpin’ a body onward in peace.” Hannah struggled to catch a

breath. “I’ve done so for others, and there’s no one but you to do

so fer me.”

“Ye will get better! Ye have in the past . . .”

“Na, Maggie-love, there’s no gettin’ better—ye ken tha’ as well

as I.” Hannah reached out and touched a wizened finger to Mag-

gie’s temple. “Dig deep—find th’ strength to help me onward—for

I canna get the thing done on my own.”

Maggie could not speak for the anguish clogging her throat.

She trembled and took Hannah’s hand in hers.

Hannah smiled. “I’m not afeart—my Alan’s there—waiting

for me.”

2

Spirited Away

A smirr of rain and fog clung to the city, muffling the bong of the

eve ning church bell. With the raveled selvage of her plaide in a

clutch beneath her chin, Maggie gripped tight her basket and

wove through the crowded streets of Glasgow’s Gallowgate.

The pittance Maggie earned helping the washwomen on the

Green paid the quitrent on a damp room she shared with eight