Stone me as the sinner that I am

Helen tilted her head back, the sea mist tender as a lover’s kiss on her flushed skin. She gasped for air, the distant rumble of the tidal flow echoing her own labored breaths as the waves surged at the beat of her heart. Shh-shh, thump thump. Shh-shh, thump thump.

A tremor passed over her, and she wrapped her shawl tightly around herself. She sensed warmth leaving her body, oozing from her wet clothes like vapor from a saturated fire log. Her own feelings tugged at her, throwing her off balance, and she shifted her weight.

Coming here was a mistake, she thought. I can’t be seen with her.

She tucked her chin down and brusquely turned on her heels, the sand beneath her feet releasing a sucking noise at the sudden motion.

“Helen.”

She halted in her steps but didn’t raise her head.

“Helen.”

The voice - her voice - embraced her, as if it came from every place and no place at all, ghostly as the thickening fog. Helen forced her legs to move beneath her drenched skirt, but she stumbled, the trappings of her own womanhood weighing her down. And then she smelled it. Smelled her, and her resolve crumbled. A soft palm on the small of her back, warm breath brushing against her neck, her ear.

“Helen, please, don’t leave me.”

Not that. Never that.

Coming here was a mistake, she repeated to herself. God forgive me, but I’m bewitched.

Helen had been wed to James for nearly four months when she first heard the name that would come to define her in ways her own never did, never could.

“What about Mr. Stewart’s widow? Do you know her?” Helen asked Mrs. Ferguson one Sunday morning after the function. As the newlywed of Reverend Campbell, and a stranger herself, she felt it her duty to get to know each of her husband’s parishioners.

The woman sniffed. “I know of her,” she answered curtly, before continuing, “Her name is Muirinn. Muirinn Ni Bhriain, or a similar Gaelic gibberish. A fey creature, if ever there was one. Duncan Stewart married her about ten years ago. Claimed he found her strolling on the beach under a full moon. ‘A gift from the sea,’ the old fool said. Pah!” Mrs. Ferguson spat. “More a curse, I’d say. His lugger got caught in a storm a few weeks later, and that was that for him. You’d be wise to steer clear of her, Mrs. Campbell,” she warned, her lips pressing together.

How can something that held no significance just moments ago suddenly come to mean everything? Yet, from the moment Mrs. Ferguson uttered that name, her name, Helen’s ears tuned to the sound of it, her heart aching for it to be spoken.

Muirinn, the sea-born.

Muirinn, the witch.

Muirinn, the harlot.

It drifted in whispers caught by the early spring breeze, as if to taunt her. Catch me, if you dare.

And dare she did. Day after day, as the season turned and her shadow grew longer under the pale sun, she pushed herself slightly farther from the village, slightly closer to the tidelands. To her.

She crossed paths with Muirinn one evening as the sun sank on the horizon. The tide was out, and the sand shimmered gold under the sunset. A lone figure stood by the shore, back turned to the land, kirtle gathered up above the water. As Helen got nearer, her eyes fell on the woman’s bare ankles and calves, ivory-white and nearly opalescent in the warm light. She averted her gaze out of modesty, heat rising from her neck to her cheeks as her pulse quickened. It’s her, she thought. Muirinn, the sea-born.

Helen halted, her shadow stretching forward, straining against the bonds that tethered it to her body, much like a dog yanking at its leash at the sight of its mistress. Of her.

The woman was leaning down to grab a pebble when she caught sight of Helen. She straightened slowly, raising a hand to shield her eyes, skirt still hitched up at the waist. Helen inhaled sharply as she took in Muirinn’s features. Her skin was as pale as marble, cheekbones slightly flushed in the late afternoon wind. For a brief instant, Helen thought the other woman lacked eyebrows and eyelashes, their fair color fading as they did into the pallor of her face. And her eyes…God, her eyes! Helen had never seen their like: one blue like the winter sky, the other black as tar. A fey creature, if ever there was one.

“Hello. I’m Reverend James Campbell’s wife” she introduced herself, offering her hand, “Helen.”

The other woman cocked her head, regarding Helen in silence, before pocketing the pebble and stepping forward to shake her hand. “I’m Muirinn Stewart. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Campbell.” Her voice was husky, her palm warm and rough against Helen’s.

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Mrs. Stewart,” Helen remarked. “We’ve missed you at our prayer meetings.”

“Is that so?” Muirinn replied with a faint smile. “Forgive me, Mrs. Campbell, but I find it hard to believe.” She relaxed her grip on Helen’s hand and set about fixing her kertch, which had begun to slip off her head. Helen’s eyes followed the movements of her slender fingers, repressing a queer urge to check if the hair beneath was as white as the rest of her. Muirinn’s gaze flicked to her face, and her lips curled at the edges, as if she was privy to Helen’s innermost desires.

You’d be wise to steer clear of her, Mrs. Campbell.

Helen cleared her throat. “Mrs. Stewart, please rest assured that it would give my husband and I great joy if you were to join us at the kirk this Sunday,” she stated, hands primly folded over her skirt.

Muirinn unhitched her kirtle and silently moved past Helen, lightly grazing her shoulder with her own, before turning back to look at her.

“From what I’ve seen, Mrs. Campbell,” she said in her raspy voice, “women should be wary of speaking on behalf their husbands, especially when it concerns matters they have no knowledge of. You should leave now,” she added, glancing at darkening sky. “It’s a new moon tonight, and the tidelands can be dangerous in the dark. Farewell.”

Helen watched the woman as she walked away from her. The evening air had a bite to it now, yet it still held her scent, sweet and musky.

Night had set in by the time she got home. A faint glow came from James’s studio, and she silently padded down the hallway, knocking lightly on the frame. There was no answer. The door stood ajar, and she leaned in to take a look. The room was empty, the flickering light of the oil lamp illuminating a half-filled glass on the desk. She straightened and bumped into someone standing closely behind her.

“James!” Helen gasped as she spun around, her hands instinctively lifting in front of her. “You startled me,” she laughed nervously.

“Where have you been?” James asked, his voice flat and his expression unreadable.

“I..,” Helen fumbled, her mind racing. “I went out for a walk and lost track of the time. I’m sorry,” she added, placing her hand on his arm and leaning in for a kiss. He stood rigid, his eyes never leaving her face. “James?” Helen’s voice quivered slightly, and she loathed herself for that. “Is something the matter?”

“Are you aware of your responsibilities, Mrs. Campbell?” His tone betrayed a faint curiosity, as though he was genuinely interested in her response. Helen frowned, taken aback by the the abrupt shift in topic.

“Why, of course. I’m well aware of…”

“‘Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord,’” James cut in, “Ephesians 5: 22-30. Pray tell, why did you take upon yourself to go to that woman,” he spat the words, spittle hitting Helen’s face, “when I expressly forbade it?”

“I thought she…”

The slap hit her cheek hard, and her head ricocheted against the door frame with a loud crack. She would have fallen had James not grabbed by the elbow.

“Do not ever speak back to me, woman. Ever,” he growled as he shook her roughly, then dragged her toward their bedroom, half hoisting her, half pulling her along. “A child in your womb will put an end to your fanciful notions. With God’s help, I’ll see to it.”

But the Lord did not come to James’s succor. Not that night or any of the following. The more he forced himself on Helen, the more she defied him. She resumed her solitary walks, just to the quay first, and then farther, down to the tidelands. Down to her. Each time she dared herself to get closer, ever closer, her own heart guiding her to Muirinn as a compass pointing north.

“Hello, Mrs. Campbell.”

Helen blinked. She found herself standing at the Stewarts’ cabin, with no recollection of how she had gotten there.

“Mrs. Stewart, um…” Helen stammered slightly before regaining her composure. “Good day to you. I wonder if you could spare me a moment?”

Muirinn’s eyes roamed all over Helen’s face, her mouth tightening as she took in her bruised eye and swollen lip. “Of course, please come on in.”

The earthy smell of dried leaves and pressed flowers welcomed Helen as she stepped inside the cabin. Muirinn indicated a stool while removing the straw hat she had worn to shield her pale skin from the sun. Tendrils of unruly hair broke free from her braid, and she swiftly tucked them behind her ears. Helen was overwhelmed by an abrupt urge to rake her fingers through Muirinn’s hair, to feel its buttermilk silkiness on her skin. She shifted her eyes downward when Muirinn sat down across from her, waiting for Helen to speak.

“Um..” Helen hesitated. I shouldn’t have come here, she thought. This is madness! She quickly got to her feet, breath caught in her throat. “Mrs. Stewart, it has been highly presumptuous of me to arrive without an invitation. Please, pardon…”

“Helen.”

Helen felt a jolt running through her. Never had her given name sounded so rich, so meaningful. In that cabin hidden among the tidal flats, she felt truly seen for the first time. Muirinn rose slowly, her hand moving gently toward Helen’s face. She let her fingers hover over the bruise, eyes searching Helen’s, seeking approval before landing softly over the swollen lip. Helen leaned into Muirinn’s warm palm, stretching her arms to envelope the other woman’s slender waist, closing the distance between. As she laid her head on Muirinn’s shoulder, taking in her scent, the warmth of her skin, Helen felt something within her crack, and she wept. For her lost innocence. For her barren womb. For her soul, eternally cursed.

They sat in silence, Helen’s heaving sobs now hushed, the sea’s rhythmic breaths echoing outside the wattle and daub walls of the shack.

“Do you wish for a child?” Muirinn asked, her raspy voice breaking the silence.

“I do,” Helen answered, knowing it to be true. She wanted to become a mother, more than anything else. “But the Lord has not willed it yet,” she sighed.

Muirinn’s intense gaze bore into Helen’s, and after a moment, she stood and headed to the curtain that separated her cot from the living area. She slipped behind the divider and reappeared shortly after, her right hand clenched into a fist. Halting in front of Helen, she opened her palm to reveal a smooth pebble, a single white stripe running unbroken around it.

“What’s this?” Helen asked, a smile tugging at her lips. “Will you stone me as the sinner that I am?” she joked, but Muirinn’s palm clamped over her mouth, muffling the laughter in her throat.

“Don’t say that,” she hissed, eyes wide in fear. “You’ll draw bad luck.” She paused, locking her gaze with Helen’s, until the other woman nodded in understanding. Satisfied, Muirinn lifted her hand from Helen’s mouth and handed her the pebble. “This is a wish stone. Hold it in your hands and imagine life stirring within you. Trust that it is real, and it will be. After setting your intention, tuck the stone away in your pillowcase,” she told her.

“A wish stone?” Helen felt a tug of anxiety. Muirinn, the witch.

“Yes,” Muirinn replied, her expression grave. “It will work. But, Helen, whatever you do, don’t let your husband find it.”

On that hot midsummer day, as she left the Stewarts’ dwelling, a wave of fear washed over Helen. She glanced back, hoping for one last glimpse of Muirinn, but she was no longer there.

She hid the wish stone in her pillow that night, as instructed. James mounted her quickly, rolling off as soon as he was spent. Helen turned onto her side, the hard, smooth surface of the wish stone oddly comforting against her cheek as she drifted off to sleep. By the next moon she knew to be with child.

Now that she carried his heir, James had stopped visiting her at night, likely as relieved as she was to set aside that joyless routine, but he made sure Helen never left his sight. She could sense his eyes following her as she moved around the kirk, his footsteps trailing hers as she strolled through the market stalls. James’s presence seemed to counteract Muirinn’s absence: the more there was of one, the less there was of the other, as if they were opposing energies in Helen’s world. As summer went by and Helen’s pregnancy began to show, James prohibited her from leaving the house. She spent her days rolling the wish stone in her hands, trying to remember Muirinn’s scent. She couldn’t.

When Helen woke up that morning, she asked herself no questions. She simply waited for James to leave, and wrapping her shawl around her, she slipped out through the back door and headed to the tidelands, part walking, part running. Her doubts kept pace though, and when she finally had to stop, gasping for breath, they caught up with her, but so did she.

“Helen, please, don’t leave me.”

She let herself be turned around and blindly fell into step, like a lost child returned home, or a lamb led to the slaughterhouse. She glanced at Muirinn’s back, allowing her eyes to rest on the exposed nape, on the porcelain sheen of the pale skin, before forcing them to trace the arc of the neck, up to her hair. She craved to touch it, to touch her, but she clenched the shawl tighter and willed her hands to steady over the slight bump on her midriff.

“Muirinn, wait,” Helen said, forcing her feet to a stop. “I came here to bid you farewell.” Her voice quivered, but she pressed on, “I’m with child, Muirinn.”

Muirinn turned slowly to face, her mismatched eyes wandering over Helen’s face, taking her in. A smile crept over her lips as she leaned forward. Her kiss landed on the corner of Helen’s mouth. Intimate. Obscene.

Muirinn, the harlot.

“Helen, I’m so happ…”

Helen shoved her aside, more forcefully than she meant to, causing Muirinn to stumble backward as her legs got caught in her skirt. “Helen, I…” she started, but Helen’s scream drowned out her voice.

“What have you done to me, Muirinn?” she cried. “I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot live…” She broke into sobs, holding herself tightly as if she feared breaking apart. “I hate you,” she finally whispered, knowing it to be a lie. She turned on her heels and walked briskly away, leaving Muirinn behind.

James was waiting for her when she got home. He stood in the dark hallway, blocking the passage. As she made to push past him, he grabbed her by the neck, slamming her against the paneled wall. His eyes bore into hers, cold, dead, his calloused fingers gripping her windpipe, squeezing the life out of her. She choked, dark spots flashing in her vision, her hands weakly flailing against his arms. Just when Helen believed he would kill her, James released her, and she dropped on the floor like a broken doll.

He towered above her for a moment, panting heavily, before stepping out of the house, locking the door behind him.

He hadn’t uttered a word.

Helen drifted in and out of consciousness, her breath rasping through her swollen throat. Muffled sounds - voices, cries - hovered in the air like dust motes, as day gave way to night.

It was dawn when she heard the front door open. She had managed to hoist herself up at some point during the night and, seeing James’s silhouette at the threshold, she struggled to stand. She looked at that stranger who was her husband and recoiled at the sight of his hands, scraped and grimy, as though he had clawed his way out of his grave.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" he said hoarsely. He tossed something at her feet. It thudded as it slid across the wooden boards. "The Devil’s whore burns in hell.”

Helen felt nausea rising in her throat as she took in the blood on the wish stone. She covered her mouth with a hand, gagging.

“What have you done?” she whispered, but James had already left.

She found Muirinn on the beach. The waves were lapping against her right side, making her head sway gently. Helen hobbled nearer, sinking to her knees the moment she got to her. Her eyes landed on Muirinn’s shorn head. Her hair had been brutally chopped, patches of bare scalp strikingly red and raw in the harsh light. A jagged cut ran across her temple, just above her beautiful winter sky eye. A fey creature if ever there was one.

Helen leaned forward, pressing her lips to Muirinn’s ear.

“I’m sorry I lied,” she murmured. “I love you, Muirinn.”

Her secret. Her unspoken, unspeakable secret.