2
TILDA
The dawn light is soft on Tilda’s eyes as she follows the path around the top of the lake. Still she wears her protective tinted lenses, as she always does. This morning a mist rises slowly from the surface of the water, deadening sounds and blurring the edges of the trees as she runs past them. In the gloom she can just make out the fuzzy silhouette of the ramshackle disused boathouse at the top of the lake. Everything appears smudged and indistinct. Tiny droplets of water settle upon her black beanie and her long, pale plait that swings as she runs. She glances at her watch, wanting to check her pace on the specialized timer. To her annoyance she finds it has stopped working. She halts, her heavy breath chasing away the mist as she exhales. The watch had been a present from Mat. A serious runner’s watch for a serious runner. Tilda taps it, frowning, but the hands stay stubbornly still, the tiny dials refuse to move.
I told him it was too complicated. Too many parts waiting to go wrong.
Except that it has never gone wrong before, not in the two years she has been using it. It has always kept perfect time, and the stopwatch diligently recorded her progress. Until now. Now it is dead. Tilda closes her eyes tightly, bracing herself against another flashback, another vivid glimpse of Mat’s death.
No. Not again, not today, not out here. Please.
She opens her eyes. The mist moves in eddies about her, but no heartrending vision comes this time. She leans forward and sets off once again at a smart pace. As the day breaks properly more of the lake is exposed, its shroud of vapor rising to reveal the silky surface shimmering beneath the autumn sun. Once again she experiences the frisson running close to the water gives her. It is as if by looking at it so frequently, by treading so near, she is controlling her fear of its depths, managing her phobia. For phobia it is, she has never been under any illusions about that. Her father had done his utmost to help her. Notes had been coming home from school—Tilda refuses to set foot in the swimming pool. Tilda must learn to swim but cannot be made to leave the changing room. Her mother had scolded and tutted and refused to have any patience with such silliness. Her father had taken it upon himself to Do Something Constructive. This involved Saturday mornings spent at the local baths, the two of them sitting on the wooden benches beside the baby pool, she in an inappropriately cheerful costume and tightly inflated water wings, he in beige checked shorts and baring an expanse of fuzzy chest and pasty belly. He had squeezed her hand firmly.
‘There is nothing to be frightened of, Little Rabbit. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s very shallow, you know. You could walk from one side to the other. Why don’t we just try that? A bit of walking, hmmm?’
‘But the water…’ Tilda, at eight years old, had been unable to make anyone understand what she felt. It wasn’t really that she believed she would drown, it was the water itself. The look of it. The way it moved. The feel of it as it pulled against her legs, disturbing her balance, threatening to topple her. And then, what? She had never been able to put her head beneath the surface, even in the bath. What would she do if she went under here? She caught her breath at the very thought of it. It would be like death, she was certain of it, like death swallowing you up, in a silent, airless place. People weren’t meant to go there. It was meant for fishes.
‘Daddy,’ she said at last, ‘I’m not a fish.’ It was the best she could do.
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, laughing not unkindly, patting her hand.
‘No, little one,’ he agreed. ‘You’re not a fish.’
She never had learned to swim, and even her father, the most tactful man she knew, had been unable to hide his astonishment that she should choose to live so close to a lake.
Ah, the things we do for love.
Today she enjoys the stimulation of the proximity of danger. Of fear managed. She runs on, and has gone only a little farther when she becomes aware of voices. Though muffled by the mist, they are clearly raised, angry voices. Slowing her pace she peers into the gloom. She has never encountered anyone on her early morning circuits of the lake. The voices are coming from the field to her left. She can discern two men, both cursing, but not, she thinks, at each other. A sudden yelp reveals the target of their rage. Tilda reaches the patchy hedge and clambers more through than over it in time to see the taller of the youths land a second hefty kick on the skinny gray dog with scruffy hair that cowers on the ground in front of him.
‘Oy!’ she shouts before she has time to think of the wisdom of confronting two angry strangers when she is alone. ‘Stop that! Leave the poor thing alone.’
The men look up and see Tilda as she emerges from the mist. Her appearance startles them, and for a brief moment they stare, but are quickly over their surprise.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ the shorter one growls.
As she gets closer to the dog, Tilda can see a trickle of blood coming from its mouth. It is shaking with fear but unable to run away, as one of the men has hold of a chain that is fastened around the dog’s neck.
‘Why are you hurting her? What has she done that is so terrible?’
‘She’s useless,’ the dog’s tormenter tells Tilda. ‘She won’t do her job.’
‘Her job?’
The men exchange glances and Tilda realizes whatever activity they are engaged in is probably without the landowner’s permission.
‘Were you after foxes?’ she asks, though she knows this can’t be right.
‘Huh!’ the shorter man sneers, ‘this thing couldn’t catch a cold, never mind a fox.’
‘She’s a lurcher,’ the other youth points out, as if this explains anything. When Tilda remains blank he goes on. ‘She’s supposed to catch hares.’
‘Hares. But … why?’
At this both men lose their patience. ‘Look,’ says the nearest one, ‘it’s none of your business, okay? You don’t know about dogs.’
‘I know you don’t teach them anything by kicking their teeth out,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.
The taller man yanks on the dog’s chain, forcing it to stagger to its unsteady feet. ‘Come on,’ he says to his companion, ‘let’s go. Stupid bitch!’ he spits, and Tilda can’t be sure if he is addressing the dog or her. The poor animal glances back as it is dragged away. It is still bleeding from the kick to its mouth, and also has a pronounced limp. The sight of its suffering is too much for Tilda.
‘Wait!’ she calls after them. ‘If you don’t want the dog, I’ll have it.’
The men pause and turn. ‘What do you want with it? Why should we give it to you?’
‘You’ve just said it’s useless at … hunting. Must cost a lot, feeding a dog like that. I’ll take it off your hands.’
‘Oh yeah? How much?’
‘What?’
‘How much are you gonna give us for her? She’s from a good line. They cost money, you know, working lurchers.’
‘Even useless ones?’
Both men scowl and begin to walk off. Tilda trots after them and catches up with the tall one holding the lead. She instinctively puts her hand on his arm.
‘Look, I haven’t got any money on me. But I’ll give her a good home. Save you the cost of the dog food. And the vet’s bills.’
The youth looks down at her hand and sees her watch.
‘I’ll take that for her,’ he says.
‘My watch? Oh, but it’s…’ She is going to say broken but then notices the hands are moving; it is working again. ‘… It was a present from my husband.’
The man shrugs. ‘Do you want the dog or don’t you?’
She hesitates for only a moment, thinking of Mat and how pleased he had been when he found the watch for her, and then knowing what he would want her to do. Slipping the watch from her wrist, she hands it over and takes the chain before the man can change his mind. She whistles softly at the dog to encourage it to go with her and is relieved when it limps along beside her quite willingly. She is aware of the men watching her as s
he struggles to help the dog over a low bit of hedge and back onto the path, and finds she is only breathing steadily again once she hears them stomping off across the field in the opposite direction.
It takes an age to reach the house, as the dog is lame, sore, and undernourished. Tilda’s running clothes are unequal to the chilliness of the morning without the warmth exertion would produce, so that by the time they arrive at the cottage both she and her new housemate are shivering. It follows her inside meekly. Only now does she realize she did not ask for the dog’s name. There is no tag on its chain collar, which has started to rub, so she takes it off.
‘What am I going to call you, pooch? You are a weedy thing. All skinny and gray and tufty. I know; Thistle! Yes. That’ll suit you. Now, what would you like to eat, eh, Thistle? What do lurcher dogs eat, I wonder?’
It feels strange, the sound of her own voice in the house she has only ever been alone in. Strange, but nice. She fetches a saucer of milk and the dog gives her a look that clearly says I’m not a cat, but drinks it all the same. Tilda empties a tin of tuna into a cereal bowl. It is wolfed down in seconds. The sight of the dog licking hungrily at the empty dish reminds her that she will have to buy more supplies soon. Without a car, this is not a simple task.
When Tilda had informed her parents of her intention to live at the cottage without Mat it was the first thing her mother had brought up.
‘How can you possibly live in such a remote place if you refuse to drive? Really, Tilda, it’s just not sensible. How will you shop?’
‘There’s a post office and stores in the village.’
‘You can’t live on canned food and chocolate bars.’
Wrong again, Mother.
Thistle stands on her stringy legs, head on one side, watching Tilda quizzically.
‘Okay, maybe you will need proper food. Later on I’ll have a look on the Internet to see if there’s a supermarket that delivers around here, okay? Later. Now, we need heat.’
Tilda opens the door of the Rayburn and pokes at the smoldering fire inside. She takes a log from the basket and feeds it in. There is a great deal of smoke, but very little warmth. Shutting the stove door, she pulls a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and calls the dog to lie on it. But the cushion is small, and however tightly Thistle tries to curl herself up onto it, her legs still dangle over the edges onto the cold kitchen floor.
‘Now you’re making me feel like a bad dog owner. Don’t you know how lucky you are? I haven’t time to fuss over you. I have work to do. A studio to set up. Orders to fill.’ The dog regards her with a woeful expression.
With a sigh Tilda drags the electric fan heater out from the corner of the room and positions it close to the dog’s bed. She switches it on, expecting a cheerful light and a gentle puffing of heat. Instead there is a nerve-jarring bang and all the lights go off.
‘Damn!’
In the gloom of the hallway, she squints at the ancient fuse box. It is a tangle of wires and dusty fitments, but she is eventually able to find the master switch. She flicks it down, and light is restored.
Feeling quite pleased with herself, Tilda returns to the kitchen.
‘Right,’ she tells the dog, ‘I’ve got to get into the studio. You’ll just have to make do with the Rayburn. I’m not risking switching that heater on again.’ As she heads for the door she is painfully aware of a pair of beady brown eyes following her.
Will it be lonely? Should I take it with me? Oh, this is ridiculous.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she calls to Thistle, her hand on the latch of the door. She is just about to go out when there is a second loud bang and the power goes off once more.
‘Damn it! Again?’ She turns and strides through the kitchen. Not seeing that Thistle has got up from her cushion she stumbles into the dog, tripping, her knee connecting with the edge of a wooden chair. ‘Stay in your bed! Ouch, for pity’s sake.’ Cursing further, she sits heavily on the floor, clutching her knee. The dog is back on its cushion, making itself as flat and small as it can. Tilda is filled with remorse at having spoken harshly. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes tight. She knows if she lets herself cry–properly cry—grief will claim her again.
You are a self-pitying fool, Tilda Fordwells. Get up, girl. Get up and get on!
She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands up, allowing herself two deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. Thistle is peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. Immediately, Tilda is swamped by pity for the dog. Slowly she moves close to the scruffy hound, crouching beside it, stroking the animal’s head and ears gently.
‘I’m sorry. You poor old thing. And your mouth is still bleeding. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on the stove, make me a cup of tea and you some warm water so I can bathe your face. Then we’ll phone an electrician. The cell phone might not work up here, but at least the landline does. Upside of keeping the old telephones that don’t need to be plugged in to the main power supply. What d’you say, sound like a good idea? Might even be a biscuit or two to go with the tea. You could help me with those.’
Thistle replies with a feeble but friendly wagging of her tail, the movement sending up little clouds of dust to swirl and dance in the narrow beam of sunlight that falls through the window.
‘Who needs electric lights anyhow, eh? Not me. And certainly not you,’ Tilda decides, noticing how soothing the feel of the dog’s fur is beneath her fingers. She sets about her tasks and begins to achieve the sense of calm that comes from gently restoring order; from attending to the small details of life that ease the passage of time. When at last the dog is tended to and settled and the electrician called, she slips out of the house and into her ceramics studio.
SEREN
The sun has gone to sleep and left shadow-making to the torches that burn bright in the still of the evening. From where I sit, at the entrance to my small lakeside house, I have an unbroken view of the crannog. The small island sits upon the water as if held there by magic, floating, the weight of the hall and the other buildings apparently supported by some unknown glamor. In truth, it is a solid thing. It was not magic that brought it into being but hard labor, sweat, and toil. It is not suspended at all, but sits stoutly on layers of rock and wood, hauled into place over many months, constructed to the design of clever, ambitious men.
Many more torches than is customary are lit tonight, the better to show the way to the gathering in the long hall. And the better to show off the finery of those who will attend. How people snatch at the chance to parade in their expensive garments and gaudy jewels. They pretend to hurry to their prince’s side, to show their support, to listen to his every word. In truth their loyalty is not as great as their vanity. And is not the crannog itself a display of pride? That man can make an island! Not content to build his hall and smithy and houses on the shore, he must construct his own isle, must sit atop the water, as if he has conquered the elements so that he alone is able to float his impossibly heavy buildings above the eels and fishes. As if his feet are too tender, too royal, to set upon the gritty earth.
The lake itself is quiet tonight. The trifling events of those who dwell within its reach do not trouble it. A wind might stir its surface into jagged waves. A freezing might glaze it with bitter ice. The sun on a summer morn might lift from it a mist. But man’s splashings and flailings are fleeting disturbances only. Prince Brynach considers himself ruler of his own land, and that may be so, but he no more rules the water of the lake than the stars in the sky or the thunder in the clouds. No matter how many crannogs he builds.
They are hurrying to the gathering now, eager to take the best seats, close enough to the fire to be illuminated, to be seen, but not so close as to suffer the choking smoke more than they must. They will greet one another warmly, but those smiles will slip to sneers behind turned backs. The prince has his royal home, his floating palace, and it attracts the ambitious like so many moths to a flame. It is his own fault that he is surrounded by men wh
o would as readily fight with him as for him. He is a good prince, with good intentions, but unwilling to see the truth sometimes. He has eyes to melt your heart, peat-dark and flecked with gold, and steady in their gaze, but he cannot see the treachery before him. It falls to me to show him.
I take my time. Let them bluster and settle. I have no interest in observing pleasantries. The night is cooling and I am glad of my wolfskin cloak and headdress. My appearance among the prince’s people always causes unease. The sight of me reminds them of things they do not understand. Of things they fear, and yet need. But tonight I must present myself not merely as Seren the Seer, Seren who lives apart. Who lives alone. This night I must stand before my prince and make him hear me. Make them all hear me. I am Seren Arianaidd. Seren who calls the Afanc. Seren the Prophet. Seren the Witch. My pale hair beneath my wolf’s mask headdress is braided with bright green reeds from the banks of the lake. Under the fine animal skin I am naked except for my short woolen tunic and my leather armor, the silver at my throat and wrists, and the pictures on my flesh. My feet are bare, though my steps ring to the sound of bangles of bone and shell at my ankles. My blade is at my waist. I have painted my eyes so that their glasslike lightness is particularly striking, and I have studded my brow and cheeks with beetle wings. Wings that will flutter and shine beneath the glow of the fire as I move around it. They will look at me and be afraid. And that fear will make them listen. Before I leave the sanctuary of my little home, I step into the lake, let it gently lap my feet. I need the calmness of the water if I am not to be riled beyond endurance. This is not a moment to let my temper steer me. When my mother was schooling me in the ways of the shaman and the skill of the witch, how often she would chide me for my want of control.
The Silver Witch Page 2