Falling to her knees, she tried to stop his flailing arms and legs, protect his head, but her efforts were useless. Stiff-limbed, he kicked and jerked and threw his hands about, screeching fit to raise the devil. The skin broke on his knuckles as they struck the ground, blood splattering on his clothes, on Sorcha’s apron, her face.

‘Help!’ shouted Sorcha. ‘Help!’

She tried to prevent him injuring himself further as he squirmed and twisted, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. He was strong, his heels pummelled her legs, he threw off her hands.

People came running from their houses but halted a few feet away and stared, not knowing what to do, afraid. ‘It’s Peter Morton!’ cried someone. ‘Fetch his da,’ yelled another.

There was no need. Out of the house next to the smithy bowled Peter’s father and his two eldest sisters. Throwing themselves beside Sorcha, they stared helplessly as their son and brother quaked and shrieked.

‘What happened?’ shouted Patrick Morton, trying to be heard above his son’s haunting wails. A huge man, he had a great dark beard and small beady eyes that failed to meet others’. His large hands hovered above his son’s body, too scared to touch him. His daughters began to sob.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sorcha, trying not to let panic overtake her. ‘Help me hold him still, please. He’s hurting himself.’

Reluctantly, Patrick wrapped his hands around his son’s arms, pinning him to the ground. Sorcha took his ankles and leaned all her weight on them. The lad arched his back; the veins on his neck were cords. All she could think was, please don’t die. Please don’t die.

‘What happened?’ repeated Patrick Morton through gritted teeth.

Sorcha tried to answer as she battled against Peter’s unnatural strength. ‘One minute we were walking up the street, the next he stopped and fell to the ground.’ She looked over her shoulder; the wooden pail was still there, but the smoke no longer rose above it, thank God. Turning her attention back to Peter, she felt his movements weren’t quite as violent. His screams had transformed into dreadful heavy breathing, much like she imagined the bellows he wished to show her would have sounded. His neck was stiff and his eyes wide open, his pupils huge.

‘Let’s get him inside,’ said Patrick and, with his shovel-like hands, scooped up his son, throwing Sorcha back onto her heels. He carried him to the house. Scrambling to her feet, Sorcha followed. So did the rest of the folk. ‘Someone get the reverend. Now,’ ordered Patrick, pausing outside his door.