Shot!

This short story is based around my home village of Crawick in Upper Nithsdale in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. The picture below shows a busy mill village and how the place may have looked during the 18th Century - the time period in which the story is set, and the so called Crawick witches ran a mock around the local area! I hope you enjoy reading this. 

Shot

Robert Stitt was looking forward to unwinding after a long shift at the Crawick Mill. Enjoying the peace and quiet of the warm summer’s evening, he nipped into his cottage to collect his musket, and walked towards the Holm Wood. Above him was a cloudless periwinkle, blue sky. As he stepped under the dense canopy of trees, he admired a large red kite flying above, also scanning the ground. “You know the Holm Woods as well as I, my friend.” he said respectfully.



Waiting for his prey, a raven cawed ominously from the drystone dyke at the entrance to the Holm. Being the engine driver at the Mill, meant he had an uncanny sense of hearing and sharp eyesight. Unlike most men, he could hear the rustle of a bush a hundred yards away.



He rammed the paper cartridge down the musket and lay in the long grass, motionless. But after forty-five minutes, he began to lose faith. Suddenly, a large athletic hare streaked out of a bush in front of him and darted towards another. He aimed and fired. Bullseye! He sauntered casually through the puff of white smoke and putrid smell of sulphur to the spot where the dead hare lay. But it had disappeared.



He searched high and low, without success. Dispirited, he turned to leave when, blinking in disbelief, he noticed a woman with heavily lidded eyes and curly black hair emerge from the thorn bush the hare had been shot in. Nannie, the infamous witch of Crawick, was pulling pieces of shot from her side with her taloned hands. Unfazed, she inspected one of the bloody ball-bearings. Robert just stood there, unsure what to do. Eventually, she turned and looked straight at him. She raised her dark eyebrows and tutted accusingly. A crooked finger waggled in his direction. She glowered for a minute more before turning around, pocketing the shots and walking defiantly towards the river.



Robert ran home, terrified. He flung open the back door and was about to shout to his wife, when he realised it would be pointless as it was Friday and she would be down at the river washing clothes. Trying to calm himself down, he went into the kitchen to smoke his pipe. But as Robert entered the lamplit room, he saw a sight that made the hairs on the back of his neck curl. Roughly fifty bloodstained shots lay on the wood carved table.