Today, we’re thrilled to welcome Kate MacDonald to the Hive to celebrate the publication of her magical fantasy The Shetland Witch:

Hazel is an archaeologist, working in Unst, on the most northerly coast of the Shetland Isles.
She’s digging on Ishabel’s land. Ishabel is a retired professor of botany, and one of the remaining three Shetland witches, along with Maggie the artist who is getting too casual about shape-changing in public, and Avril the wildlife warden with too many birds to guard.
Maggie discovers that Hazel is also magical, and she becomes a Shetland witch.
Then Atropos arrives, to look for her shears that she sent into hiding to the ends of the earth thousands of years ago. She has to protect them from Zeus.
How will the witches protect the islands from a Fate and Zeus?
How will Hazel learn how to do magic again?
How will she cope with Tornost, a malignant trow with a penchant for eighteenth-century manners?
The Shetland Witch is a novel about living in the north, about sisterhood and belonging, and the power that women wield when they work together. As past and present collide, we are reminded that history, however old and mythical, is always with us.

Available in paperback, hardback and as an ebook.

The Shetland Witch is out today! You can order yours on Amazon

Extract from The Shetland Witch

by Kate Macdonald

A stone had caught her attention two nights ago. It was a big one, the size of a fridge, sitting at the edge of the excavation site. It was round and grey, with one side smeared with dried reddish soil as if it had been rolled recently. It was squat. There was nothing at all the matter with it.  

Except that it shouldn’t have been there.

Hazel had been checking the site before locking the gate behind her. She was securing tarpaulins and latching boxes, but idling a little, having nothing to do and nowhere to go. She’d taken her binoculars up the hill to look at the voe and the archipelago beyond. A fishing boat was chugging out towards Foula in search of mackerel. Terns squabbled above her head while they flew back to the seashore below, and she could see the faint beginnings of another stunning sunset. It was the sort of evening where a beer and an extra fleece would have made a perfect end to the day.

Hazel had stopped short at the stone. 

What was this doing here? 

She had thumbed her phone to open the plan of the site and check her position. On the plan there was no stone here. Every object and natural feature had been logged meticulously before they began the dig. There were also photos, and the stone was not in those either.

How could they have missed it? It was big enough to sit on.

Not knowing what else to do, Hazel had continued her slow walk around the site. Then a sense she had almost forgotten had spoken to her. She glanced back.

The stone had gone. A figure now stood in its place, its hands behind its back, scowling at the covered excavation trench at its feet. It was about a metre high, maybe less, wearing an overlong brownish coat and something red underneath, perhaps a long waistcoat. It wore no hat, and its yellowish hair was long and wispy, tied into a straggling pigtail with a dark ribbon. 

Suddenly, it dropped to the ground, and began crawling on its hands and knees toward the edge of the tarp, sniffing. It had moved as fast as a disturbed spider, as if it were hunting. Back and forth its head swept over the ground, its body nimbly following, always sniffing with its nose close to the soil. Hazel was not scared of spiders but the movements made her feel squeamish. She had been frozen to the spot, not knowing if the creature had seen her or not. It looked filthy and was probably smelly.

Before she could think what to do, the creature had turned in her direction, and saw her standing, watching. Five, maybe six metres separated them, across the expanse of a bright blue tarpaulin. 

It had begun to rise to its feet, slowly, never taking its eyes off her. She could see the pointed teeth in its mouth now, and a slow grin. Its hands were the last parts of its body to leave the ground – ‘How does it even move like that? Is it made of rubber?’ – and then, with a wholly impossible leap the creature had sprung across the distance between them, and had landed, crouching, horribly close to her feet, looking up at her.

The most frightening thing about it, Hazel had decided later, had been the intensity of its gaze. It was indeed very smelly, and its clothes looked like mildewed theatrical costumes, their once-bright colours covered in a layer of dusty white mould. 

Its unblinking golden-brown eyes, disproportionately large in its wizened face, drew her attention, and she almost forgot that this muscular creature could be poised to spring upwards. He – she had decided that it was a he – had quite prominent sharp teeth. There was something disturbingly claw-like about his hands, resting on the ground, but she did not want to take her fascinated gaze away from his eyes.

The seabirds took no notice of him, and the sheep and the cream-coloured Shetland ponies in the neighbouring fields were uninterested. A hooded crow with wings the colour of ashes came to look, and jibbed, flying away in a hurry. 

It was two hours before dusk. Hazel stood in the gated field staring downwards at him in horror.

‘Fun ony gold?’ the creature demanded. ‘The fokk at farmed here were canny wi their cash.’ His voice was a hoarse squeak, with a thick Shetland accent.

Hazel had found herself making some useful remarks about the site. ‘No-one’s lived in this field since the seventeenth century,’ she said, gabbling a little. ‘We’re looking for Neolithic remains. Much earlier.’

He did not take his eyes off her face. ‘I keen. I wis here. I took their gear when their kye aa died. Noo I want tae hae a look for ony gold they mighta left.’

‘From five hundred years ago?’  

He made a gesture of exasperation and stood up. Now he reached to a little higher than Hazel’s waist, and was smoothing down his coat, and dusting his hands on his breeched knees. 

‘You humans place ower muckle dependence upon time. I kent the fokk; yun’s the important thing, and they are likely tae o left gold. I want it.’ His accent had switched, and his tone was accusing.

She had shaken her head mechanically. ‘We hannae found any gold.’

He had regarded her sternly. ‘Ir you been lookin?’

‘Not for gold, no,’ she had managed. 

What was she doing? Having a conversation in a damp field about archaeological finds with – what was it? A troll? A fairy? 

She pulled herself together. ‘I mean, we expect to find walls, structural deposits, things likely for a Neolithic settlement site, which is what this is. But if anything else turns up all the finds are recorded and they all go for analysis.’

‘Hmm. Weel. Whan you fin the gold, you tell me. Understood?’ He could have jabbed his finger in her chest, but he contented himself with glaring upwards at her.

‘Yes. I mean, no. Who are you?’ The question had tumbled out before she could stop herself. 

For a moment Hazel thought she saw a transforming gleam of humour on its face, and then a flash of colour and a rustle of silk jolted her attention. She looked down.

Now she was wearing a wide blue gown with pads tied under her skirts at her hips – she could feel their creaking basketry strapped to her waist. She had some kind of flat ribboned hat on her head, tied under her chin. It felt like a tea-tray, unstable and light. Her arms were bare, except for elbow-length sleeves. She could feel the chilly air around her neck and chest which were partly covered by a low lace tucker and very little else. She was too startled to do anything but long for a shawl.

The creature’s frowsty overcoat had shrunk and smartened to a gold-frogged brown frock-coat and his red waistcoat seemed to have sprouted embroidered flowers. A jaunty curled wig now covered his skinny head. While he did not look younger, he certainly looked more satisfied with his appearance.

He bowed, ceremoniously, one leg in front and the other behind: he was wearing flat black shoes and wrinkled white stockings. His right hand swept a smart black tricorne hat to his chest in a deep bow, and then he straightened up.

‘That is called making a leg,’ he had said, austerely, in quite a different voice. ‘Now you curtsey. Make a proper reverence.’

Amazed, Hazel had dredged up a memory from acting in a school play. She extended her right leg backwards and managed a brief bob that did not topple her onto the ground. She found that she was holding up her skirts from the wet grass. 

The creature had nodded. ‘No bad. Noo, I will introduce mesel: I am the trow o these islands, an you will see me ageen whan you fin the gold.’

‘But my clothes –‘ she had gasped. 

He had turned to stare at her with raised eyebrows.

‘Do you no keen the glamour whan you meet it?’

Her blue silk dress had turned back into her warm outdoor clothing and the skimpy flat slippers she had not even seen had turned back into her working boots. Her chilled feet began to feel warmer. The trow looked as he had done when she had first seen him. He was walking over the grass to the hedge, ignoring her. Before Hazel could say anything more he had slipped through a gap in the hawthorn hedge and disappeared.

The Shetland Witch is out today! You can order yours on Amazon