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Old Meg sat by the fire and stared into the flames. Her face was lined with the creases and wrinkles of age, and she had always been a well built woman, with large strong arms and heavy breasts but her posture was erect and her movements seemed to be those of a much younger and more vigorous woman.
Her manner was calm and as usual, when she sat within the safety of her own house, she was quiet and reflective, considering the events of the last few days.
Her eldest granddaughter Emily had just returned from the village with a basket of fish and the news of Samuel Harrows dead sheep and as Meg sat staring into the hearth, her three grand daughters busied themselves with the supper, well used to their grand mother’s eccentric ways. Meg knew that in times of fear, such women as she were often the first to blamed. “Witch!” was the usual taunt, from men and women alike; regardless of the many times she had helped them in the past, despite the fact that her hands had been the ones to bring them and their children into the world. When fear strode across the lands, it was always the women like her who were turned upon.
She knew this, and as she stared into the fire, her mind sought ways by which to avert the coming tragedy. Preoccupied though she was though, she was still aware of the bickering between the three young women around her.
“Quiet!” she slapped her thigh.
As usual they all stopped their chatter and gazed at her with a mix of awe and affection. Like every one else on the island they believed she had mysterious powers granted by other world agents. Whether or not they actually believed she was in league with the devil she didn’t know, but it really didn’t matter. She had always had the ability to see further than most people, and her natural intelligence, even as a girl had led her to learn much more about the world around her than most others. She knew the names of every plant and weed on the island, even in Latin, for Meg Tyler had once been an educated woman. She was no simple fisherman’s daughter, washed up on this island by consequence. Once, long ago, she had been sold into servitude in a respectable brothel in the very heart of London where she had been educated and trained as a lady. As a young woman she had learned the hearts of men, and for a few years she had been trapped by that shadowy world.
But fortune could be manipulated. God helps those who help themselves, and Meg Tyler, or Miss Maggie as she had then been called, had made it so God helped her. She had made good her escape, covering her tracks by cunning and black mail and had left London far behind. On Saint Albans Island, no one knew who she was or whence she came, and few cared. She had married an old Shepard, a man wise enough in years to thank his good fortune in such a young and dutiful wife and by him; she had given birth to twins. Jacqueline and Judith. One dark and one fair. There after the old Shepard had died. Happy and content in his final days, she had nursed him with the true love of gratitude and devotion, for he had been the first man who had ever treated her right.
Many years later she had faced tragedy and betrayal. Jacky, her beautiful dark haired girl had died in labour the night Sarah was born, and in a fit of anger and jealousy, Judith had blamed her mother for the death of her sister, and with no farewell, had run away with a sailor, bound far away over the sea and leaving her daughter Emily, then only seven years old, standing in the door way, calling out.
Remembering that time brought tears to Old Meg’s eyes, and she squeezed them away. Now they faced another hard time, and it was up to her to keep Emily, Kate and Sarah safe from the fear of men.
Supper was served and the four women sat around the table and ate in silence. Finally Emily met her grand mothers eyes and smiled, and Meg, smiled back.
Abruptly the mood around the table changed and the four women talked amongst themselves.
“Whose turn is it to feed the goats?” Meg asked as she gathered up the empty plates.
Emily looked at Sarah who scowled and rose to her feet.
“Then it must be your turn to draw the water” Meg told Emily.
The girl smiled and nodded. Of the three she was both the most helpful and the most cheerful. Kate was the prettiest but she was also more prone to surliness. Sarah was the biggest and the odd one out. Chubby, with a red face and blonde curls she had become some what of a flirt in her craving for attention, and Meg had already had to warn her about boys, knowing even as she did that her words were wasted. She watched the girls go about their chores and relaxed slightly. She had a strong feeling of apprehension in her mind, but this was the same feeling that had been troubling her for several days now. Biting her lower lip she returned to her seat by the fire and dark thoughts of the near future.
Emily watched her grandmother’s preoccupation and wondered what was going through her mind. She picked up the water pail and made her way outside to the water pump.
In the yard she passed Sarah who was carrying a bucket of the special feed which Meg had mixed up for the goats. Full of all kinds of herbs and dried plants, it kept the goats plump and healthy.She reached the old blue hand cranked pump and placing the pail beneath it began to work the stiff old handle.