It is one of those autumn nights when all wise folk are safely indoors. The wind is howling down the hills over Glenboig Moor, whipping itself around Maggie’s cottage, trying to prise off the roof and carry it away to Glasgow. Maggie isn’t superstitious, but storms have brought significant change to her long life, and she has a feeling a shift is coming her way. Change was already afoot all over Airdrie. Machines were moving into farms and mills, admittedly doing work faster than workers could, but taking something away too. Is it pride? Purpose? Wonder and wildness? Maggie ponders what place women will have in this new world. Are we forgetting we are all just animals too?
The huge cat hops onto her lap, sniffing Maggie’s tea disapprovingly - valerian root and lavender, sweetened with honey, an infusion for calm - then settles down for a good stroke. The warmth of the cat’s purring body and the bright fire in the hearth makes Maggie feel like the strong walls of her cottage are pushing away the storm. Her mind wanders, thoughts both bitter and sweet.
Suddenly, a loud thumping at the door startles Maggie. She and the cat both sit up and look toward the noise. There it is again, two more thuds. Someone is outside - outside on a night like this! The cat jumps to the floor, its fur on end, and Maggie rises, instinctively reaching for the iron poker resting against the fireplace. She calls, "Who’s out there on a night like this?” then pulls open the heavy door with a crack. A young woman stands on her doorstep, soaked to the skin, a red flush across her pale face, holding a large bundle close to her chest.
"Is this Dunnotar Cottage? Are you Maggie the Healer?" The young lady’s voice fights against the howling wind.
"I'm no healer," Maggie calls back, her words carried away by the gusts, "But come in and get dry!”
The girl shakes her head desperately and turns to leave. "I need a healer, I need help."
Maggie's eyes widen as she realises the bundle in the girl's arms is a child, and she drops the poker. Her tone shifts instantly, becoming firm and authoritative.
"Bring the child inside, lass." She motions urgently for them to come in. “I can help."
The girl’s eyes swim with relief and with a swift movement she is inside, the door shutting behind her, immediately muffling the storm.
"Get the child on the cot," Maggie instructs, her voice steady as she begins gathering clean cloths, and a bowl of hot water from the kettle. "I was a healer," she continues, her tone flat. “They called me a witch, and the church said I must desist from what they call my nefarious practices. They will put me in prison again if they catch us, but I don't think God would mind us helping this wee poppet. Let’s get these wet things off. What are your names?"
“I’m Grace,” replies the mother, “and this is Elizabeth. She’s not had her second birthday.” Maggie and Grace carefully peel the wet layers off Elizabeth’s floppy, pink body. She is very warm to the touch.
Maggie rushes to her sleeping quarters in the next room, returning with a small brass key. With a glance at the window to make sure they are alone, she darts to a tall cupboard and turns the key in the lock. The doors swing open, revealing a wall of herbal remedies. Books fill the top shelves. On the middle shelves, dried plants dangle from twine, cloth bags are neatly piled in boxes, and powdered roots and flower heads are stored in jars. Lining the lower shelves are ceramic pots, each carefully labelled with faded ink. Among them, a few delicate vessels of blue and green glass glimmer softly in the dim room. Maggie picks two of these bottles, labelled 'E, B & Yarrow' and 'Alba.' Pulling a small spoon from a nearby drawer, she makes her way back to the child and mother.
"This is made from the bark of the willow tree," Maggie explains, uncorking the bottle labelled Alba and pouring a little of the tincture onto the spoon, “It will bring down the fever and ease the child’s discomfort.” Maggie understands from experience that mothers appreciate being guided through each step of the process. Grace watches anxiously as Maggie administers two spoonful’s of the medicine. The child grimaces at the bitter taste, but it goes down.
"And this is elderflower, blaeberry, and yarrow syrup," Maggie continues, holding up the other bottle. “It will help Elizabeth fight the infection,” she goes on with a reassuring smile, encouraging the child to take the sweet syrup, “And it tastes delicious.”
Maggie and Grace bathe Elizabeth together, gently washing away the grime and sweat. Once cleaned, they wrap the child in an old, fresh shirt and tuck her snugly into the cot. Maggie notices the fever has begun to ease, a hopeful sign. The child will receive another dose of the tincture later in the night.
"Now, young lady,” Maggie says kindly, turning her attention to the mother, “Let's make you more comfortable." She insists that Grace change out of her damp dress into a clean, dry one of Maggie’s and then that she drinks the infusion for calm.
As the child sleeps, Grace sits by the fire with Maggie. For the first time in a long while, Grace feels truly safe, nestled within the sturdy walls of the cottage. She finds herself opening-up and sharing her troubles and fears. Grace speaks of her dismissal from work at the big house when her employers discovered her pregnancy and of the father who refuses to acknowledge their daughter, despite his wealth and means. Maggie listens patiently, offering comfort and support as the mother unburdens herself.
As the night wears on and the fire crackles softly, Maggie gently encourages Grace to rest with her daughter in the kitchen box bed, which has curtains for privacy. They will be safe and cared for under her roof.
When mother and daughter are breathing deeply, Maggie settles back into her chair by the fire, and the cat hops up, allowing the stroking to resume. Maggie decides that in the morning, she will ask Grace if they would like to stay with her. There's enough space, and goodness knows, young women need all the help they can get in this world. Besides, Grace would make a fine apprentice, and Maggie would appreciate help with housework now that she's getting older.
Perhaps they can both teach little Elizabeth to be a healer and maybe Elizabeth will pass on the skills to her own daughter someday. It’s hard to picture the world that they will grow up in. Will it be one where women can share their skills openly and be celebrated for healing, not persecuted by the ignorance of others? Perhaps in the future, mothers like Grace will be respected and supported, not cast aside on the whim of the ‘elite’. What she really hopes is that Elizabeth grows up to become a woman with power. It sounds simple, but to have power over one's own life is a wonderful thing. The only thing Maggie can be truly sure of is that things will change.
It had been a long night. Maggie puts the cat out, extinguishes the candles, and locks her apothecary.
