The Witches Rock

Finding a story in the Firth of Forth

I am wiping the intertidal mud from my bare feet, having just visited the gravesite of Lilias Adie in the Firth of Forth. A man walks by with his dog, and I offer him a friendly hello.

‘Visiting the Witches rock?’ He asks.

‘No, Lilias.’ I say, then pause. ‘Wait, what Witches rock?’

He points out into the water, at least a hundred meters into the intertidal zone. ‘There, that’s where they tied the Witches.’

I had read drowning wasn’t a means of death for women accused as Witches in Scotland. Many reputable scholars claim it wasn’t done. Scottish friends tell me they’ve never heard of it. I’ve been coached not to include such a scene in my screenplay. In my novel.

Now here it is.

LeeAnn and I roll up our pants and begin to wade out. It is low tide and we squish thorough mud - our feet is tugged into eddies, dark water splashes on our legs.

An ancient trail of rocks, skittering crabs, small pools of minnows – these are our guides. Our walk is scored by a symphony – the suck of water, the caw of seagulls, the pop of bladderwrack kelp pods.

At the extreme low tide mark, a huge rock looms, its massive presence jutting up for all to see.

As we approach the rock, we slow down. There is a feeling here - my skin is a barb, the hair on my arms are antennae, my stomach a knot that twists and plunges down. I look at LeeAnn and we know – something happened here. Something too terrible to name.

The boulder is massive, and on its façade, a long, thin crack runs vertically down. The remnants of a copper plate, the evidence of harm done.

The crack in this rock is a portal, and the past pours through.

Women drowned here. Women were deemed Witches here. Simple village woman met a terrible fate in the waves. Tied to the rock, hook and eye met, as the tide came in.

We do not know who died beneath the rising tide, or who floated only to later be burned as a Witch. But we dance for them, our hands on the rock, our feet plodding through the mud. We dance and sing and tell them – we know now, we believe you.

When we return to shore, our friend is standing by a plague that confirms what we already know. This is the Witches Rock. It happened.

So it finds its way into my writing, it opens my book.

You died here. I want to honour you with words.