The Highwayman's Curse by Nicola Morgan

man’s death, nor Tam’s terrible injury. Yet how could these people be made to know the truth? Or, with such a curse on our shoulders, was it too late?
    Into the silence came a rough laugh. It was Red, his head thrown back in mirth. “Look at ye! Afeard o’ an old woman’s words! Ye had better fear our intentions and the stomach o’ the sea, no’ an old wifie’s words. She talks o’ things long past. They are the words o’ a mad woman and no’ for ye.” And he made a movement of his finger across his throat, grinning again.
    The woman sat on her haunches again, her eyes glazed and unseeing now.
    I knew not what to believe. The words of the curse were powerful. There was hatred in them, which seemed for us, even if Red said she meant it not for us. And perchance her words would have power even so. Mayhap a woman like that has such power, once her mind is detached from the ordinary world and lives with madness. I had heard of such things, the powers of lunatics. It is said that such persons hear the voice of God. Could the old woman have such power?
    There was little time for these thoughts. The men who still held us dug their fingers painfully into my arms and we were pushed towards the side of the room opposite the door, where Mouldy and another man were moving a large wooden chest. This other man was the one whose religious strength meant that we would not be killed until the Sabbath was past – and I feared that this time could not be far off now. I suppose by the time the tide rose over our heads, the Sabbath would be past and his conscience clear.
    Where the chest had been, they scraped dirt from the floor and revealed a wooden door set into the ground. With a tapering piece of metal, Mouldy prised open the door and lifted it up. A gust of chill air rushed through the room, bringing with it the odours of the sea, dead fish, seaweed and rotten wood. In the fireplace, the flames drew themselves tall, swaying backwards, the smoke gusting outside the hanging chimney hood and swirling instead around the head of the old woman. And still she sat, her lips moving, her eyes closed.
    Bess looked at me. A little fear showed in her now, I thought. And how might it not? To think of drowning…
    â€œWait!” we both said together, my voice little more than a croak, hers light and high, a woman’s voice. Did anyone notice? Perhaps it would help us if they did? I still did not know, could not decide. The two men pushed us again towards the open hatchway.
    She spoke again. Her words came fast. “My friend has some knowledge. Of bones and such injuries. He can cure your child, can return him to life, I swear.” She should not make such claims! The boy was past earthly help, I was sure. And yet…
    Before I could add my voice to hers, there came a sharp, barked word from behind me. “Wait!” It was Red. He stood up, a little unsteady on his feet, and walked slowly towards us. Towards Bess.
    He knew.
    Thomas made a movement as though to stop him, but Red silenced him with a dismissive gesture. Thomas looked to his father, Jock, who merely shook his head, and looked intently at Bess, too, his eyes narrowing.
    I knew now that Red, and perhaps Jock, too, had guessed that Bess was a girl. If I had wondered before if perhaps it might save us, when I understood the look in Red’s eyes I saw that it would not. How could I have been so foolish as to think that they might treat us more lightly if they thought Bess were female? In my old life, perhaps, where gentlemen treated ladies as though they were fragile, petal-soft – but here? Where only the laws of the wilderness held sway?
    Now Red had reached Bess. Everyone was silent, even Mad Jamie, who had stopped chewing on a stick which he kept dipping in a pot of something and who now looked wide-eyed as Red removed the kerchief slowly from Bess’s throat. She looked at me then and I knew what she was