Before taking the decision to move to Scotland, I had visited the country three times: Edinburgh twice and Inverness and its surroundings once. Not much, indeed, but enough for me to get captivated by its breathtaking wilderness, its rich culture, and the heartfelt warmth of the Scottish people.
During my trips, I did what most tourists do: visiting old castles and palaces, visiting Loch Ness, haunted buildings, whisky distilleries, and much more. You know, all the things that we, foreigners, fantasise about, influenced mainly by novels, TV series and movies.
When the time comes to say goodbye, we leave this magical land with our heads full of images and stories of all the different places we had explored, each time with the hope of returning one day and discovering even more. As the years pass, so does our will to go back. Most often because our lives continue, with their ups and downs, or we are too busy with our families or jobs, and because this beautiful planet of ours abounds with so many wonders waiting to be seen.
But for some, like me, the seed of memory sprouts quietly and, like a tree, grows slowly in the soil of our mind. Until eventually, it takes root in a corner, its branches extending just enough to grab a little of your attention from time to time.
Then, in 2020, my life came to a turning point. After going through three challenging years, both personally and professionally, I decided to take a break from a life I was struggling to cope with. But where to go? That’s when I remembered that seed in the back of my mind, planted in the fields of my memories. And I realised that it had grown into a tree bigger than I imagined possible. Then some of its leaves fell off and floated around, bringing back inspiring images of fierce castles, endless heaths, majestic mountains, mysterious lakes, and other mystical places I almost forgot about. So, between two waves of the pandemic, I packed everything and moved from London to Edinburgh with the firm intention of beginning a new life there. It was not an easy decision, I knew no one in the city, and I left behind a comfortable job, my co-workers, and my circle of friends. “A whim, you’ll come back,” some told me, “We bet you’ll never cope with the weather,” others said, betting on the fact that I am from South-West France. Just a couple of weeks after my arrival, I ended up locked down inside the city. Not a promising start. Having had to stay home most of the time, I began writing my first novel, a near-future story starting in 2057. Between writing sessions, I wandered around Edinburgh’s Old City, New Town, and Leith’s Water, among other places, unravelling lesser-known local myths, hidden haunted places, and countless folk tales, aided by books and guides I purchased, and the inexhaustible knowledge of the first friend I made here.
One day, as I walked aimlessly across the esplanade of Edinburgh Castle, something caught my eye at the corner of Castlehill. It was a cast iron wall fountain decorated with two faces looking in opposite directions, enveloped by plants, a snake curled up around them. On the map, it was marked as Witches’ Well. A plaque above read, “This Fountain, designed by John Duncan, R.S.A., is near the site on which many witches were burned at the stake. The wicked head and serene head signify that some used their exceptional knowledge for evil purposes while others were misunderstood and wished their kind nothing but good. The serpent has the dual significance of evil and wisdom. The foxglove spray further emphasises the dual purpose of many common objects.” The spot is so imperceptible that it is barely noticeable, especially on a busy tourist day. Witches? I thought. Scotland was not the place I would first associate with them. Fairies, ghosts, mythical creatures, yes. But witches? The word was reminiscent of Irish and continental European folklore or Salem in America. Of course, I could remember an episode of the TV series Outlander in which one of the characters, Geillis Duncan, was burned at the stake for practising witchcraft, after a mockery of a trial. But I dismissed the scene as an attempt to dramatise the story further. Nevertheless, decisively curious, I decided to research the subject and quickly realised how wrong my assumptions were. Over almost two hundred years, Scotland was the scene of a succession of large-scale witch hunts. Most scholars estimate that between 1563 and 1736, around three and four thousand persons were accused of witchcraft. With two and a half thousand probably killed, women accounted for seventy-five per cent of the total. Compared with the total population of Scotland at the time, estimated at one million, this proportion is rather significant. All of this was spurred by one man, King James VI of Scotland, the future King James I of England, driven by his obsession with the existence of supernatural forces of evil conspiring against him.
The country’s first significant witch hunt was the infamous North Berwick witch trials that took place between 1590 and 1591. According to contemporary accounts, around two hundred people were arrested, of whom seventy were tortured and executed. Among the victims was one figurehead, Agnes Sampson. Part of the story you are about to read is based on different chronicles of her life, some more fantastical and ludicrous than genuine. And although most of the events and characters from the 16th century forming the plot are historically accurate, they were fictionalised for dramatic purposes.
I dedicate this book to those who were misunderstood and wished their kind nothing but good.
Stephan Cooper, Edinburgh, September 2021
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