The Silver Witch

Home > Other > The Silver Witch > Page 6
The Silver Witch Page 6

by Paula Brackston


  A sightseer comes to stand next to her, scanning the water with expensive-looking binoculars. Tilda makes a mental note to rummage through the as-yet unpacked boxes back at the cottage to find her own pair. Following the visitor’s line of vision, she sees what it is that has caught his attention. To the west of the lake, a hundred yards or so from the shoreline, are a minibus and a van and a cluster of people; a small knot of activity on a usually empty part of the landscape. It is not a campsite, yet she can just about make out a large tent pitched beside two portable toilets. She does not feel bold enough to ask the man if she might borrow his binoculars, so instead she forces herself to speak.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ she asks. ‘Can you tell?’

  Without lowering his glasses the man replies, ‘Archeologists. Some sort of dig, according to the bloke hiring out the boats.’ Only now does he look at Tilda.

  Look. Look away. Look again. Standard reaction number three.

  Into the awkward silence comes a woman—the man’s wife, Tilda thinks—holding a small girl by the hand. While the adults seek refuge in talking about nothing, the child stares openly from beneath a floral sou’wester. Tilda holds her gaze, waiting. She has her contact lenses in place, but she had not bothered with mascara or any sort of makeup for weeks now, so that her white lashes and brows are clearly visible. At last the girl, swinging her mother’s hand, asks loudly, ‘Why is that dog on a belt? Haven’t you got a proper lead? And why are your eyes funny? Are you blind?’ The mortified parents hasten to smooth over their daughter’s inadvertent rudeness.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says the woman, reflexively pulling her child back a pace.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tilda says.

  ‘She shouldn’t ask questions like that.’

  ‘Really, it’s fine.’

  The girl frowns deeply, causing her rainhat to drop a little lower on her brow. ‘But, Mummy, why does she look like that? And why hasn’t the dog got a proper lead and a proper collar?’

  Tilda glances at Thistle’s makeshift leash, and has to agree that the belt buckle looks uncomfortable on the dog’s slender neck. She crouches down in front of the child. ‘You know, you’re right. She does need a proper collar. And a lead. I’m going to go and buy her one right now. What color do you think I should get?’

  The girl gives the question serious consideration and then says firmly, ‘Pink.’

  ‘Right. Pink it is. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Can I stroke her?’

  ‘I think she’d like that,’ Tilda says.

  The child moves closer, her nose only just higher than Thistle’s shoulder. She gives the animal a gentle pat. Both dog and child appear to enjoy the experience.

  Tilda straightens up, smiling a practiced smile.

  The parents breathe again. The moment of embarrassment has passed. The little family moves on with their day, the child turning to wave at Thistle. Tilda sighs and returns her attention to the lake. The archeologists are pushing a small boat out onto the water and placing some sort of floats or buoys at measured distances. Looking to the north, in the space between their camp and the car park, now Tilda can clearly see the original crannog. It is a small island, with little to give away its unique origins; the fact that it is the only such man-made island in the country, and is still there, settled onto the silky waters of the lake, over one thousand years after its construction. Now it is almost completely covered in trees, and is inhabited only by some of the more timid waterbirds that benefit from its protected status. The oaks and willows, their branches just patchily leaved now, are reflected prettily in the water, and Tilda at once finds herself thinking how she might use such shapes and patterns in her work. It has been a while since she felt inspired to try something new, and a tiny spark of hope inside her lifts her mood.

  Maybe now. Maybe here. Those twisted boughs and shadowy trunks … soft grays mingled with the fading gold leaves. I could do something with that.

  A nearby mallard quacks loudly for no apparent reason, causing Thistle to jump. Tilda notices that the hound is shivering a little.

  ‘You’re still not properly better, are you, poor thing? Come on, we’ll buy some chips in the café on our way home.’

  Their route takes them past a shop selling camping equipment, fishing rods, and similar leisure supplies. There is no sign on the door barring dogs, so Tilda is able to take Thistle inside in search of a collar and lead. Minutes later the pair emerge with the dog sporting a rather bright pink-with-blue-paw-prints ensemble.

  ‘Sorry about the color,’ Tilda tells her, ‘but that must be a bit more comfortable, at least.’

  Thistle regards her new mistress with a quizzical expression, her ears cocked and her head a little to one side, but otherwise keeps her opinion to herself. Together, they head for home.

  SEREN

  It is restful here, inside the single room that is my house. I do not have ornately carved chairs, nor costly tapestries, nor silver goblets. Mine is a simple existence, but I have all I need, and I am content. No man tells me what I should do or how I should be. I choose to live alone. To live separate. Some wonder that I do not crave the protection or the company life on the crannog offers, but what need have I of protection? True, there are those who wish me gone, but they are too afraid of me to act upon those wishes. And if they were to conquer their fear, still they would hold back, for in their hearts they know they need me to be here. For am I not, after all, their protector?

  And as for company … I do not crave the companionship of other women, for I have never found one who did not judge me against herself and find me either to be envied or pitied. As for the friendship of men … well, when the day comes when one is man enough to treat me as his equal, then, only then, will I allow desire to be my guide.

  And beyond all this, I have the company of my visions. When I see, when I travel to those places others cannot, I am surrounded by all manner of wondrous beings, from times past and yet to come. They welcome me, and offer me their friendship and their counsel. How then, could I be lonely? How could I feel a lack of solace and kinship? What use have I for love? I have witnessed the foolishness it engenders in the most steadfast of people. I have seen sensible women lose their wits to a handsome stranger. I have marveled at good men debased by their passion for an unsuitable woman. I would rather keep my own company than permit myself to be so unraveled by another.

  My little house is cozy on these cold nights. The walls are thick wattle and daub, darkened by woodsmoke inside and weather outside. The roof is a dense thatch of reeds with low eaves to keep off rain and snow. There is a single doorway, closed by a rug in summer and a wooden door in winter, and a hole in the roof for the fire to smoke through. The floor is earth, packed and trodden to a hard, smooth surface, which I cover in rushes on one side beneath my bed of wood pallet and wool sack, covered in sheepskins. I keep a small fire in the center of the space, ringed by stones. I like to burn sweet wood or herbs to fill the room with soothing scents, and tonight an apple bough crackles in front of me, while sprigs of thyme singe slowly above it. I have a wooden stool, two padded bolsters, and a simple rug upon which to sit or recline. Above my fire stands a slender spit so that I might roast fowl or a piece of deer meat, or suspend a pot for stew, or to simmer my infusions. A roughly hewn chest to one side keeps my precious items clean and dry: my ceremonial robes, my braids, my blood letting blades, my bones for telling, my ground spices and preserved tinctures. Nearby sit two stout jars, one empty, one filled with honey, and a shallow bowl in case I have need of warm water to bathe wounds or otherwise offer treatments. All else I hang upon the walls: my wolf headdress, my staff, my drum, my axe, my hazel basket, an animal skin for water. My boots stand by the door—one soft leather pair, another sturdier against the cold. Next to them on a high peg I keep my hooded cloak of fine, dark red wool, a gift from the prince to show the gratitude of the community after a foretelling saved them from the worst of a storm. Tonight, alone and at
my ease, I wear a plain woolen tunic, tied loosely at the waist with a broad twist of hide, a string of painted clay beads, and a bracelet of polished ram’s horn. When I am alone I leave my hair to hang free. I do not adorn my body greatly unless I am presenting my visions as shaman. When I am at rest, I am content to let simple jewelry and the ancient patterns worked onto my skin be my only decoration.

  I am soon for my bed, but I become aware of footfalls along the path outside. I listen, head cocked. Three people. One striding bold and loud as only a young man can, rudely waking everything he passes. The others are softer. Women, I believe. I slip on my cape and step out of the hut. As I do so I am hailed by my visitors to warn me of their proximity, as if I were unaware of their approach! The youth I recognize as Siōn, the son of the princess’s brother, the family likeness marked with his green eyes and dark complexion, who is evidently accompanying his elders to afford them the enormous benefit of his protection. He steps to one side and stands feet apart, arms folded. His stance is arrogant, but his body is that of a boy, not yet hardened by years or the grit of manhood. The women come forward. Both wear deep hoods in some small effort to mask their identities, but the ruse is pointless, given the expensive fabric of the taller woman’s garb, and the stout girth of her companion. A simpleton in his cups would know them.

  I stand tall. ‘Princess Wenna, good evening to you.’

  ‘Forgive us for disturbing you so late, Seren Arianaidd.’ Her use of my full name—not her habit—suggests she is eager to win my favor. She wants something from me, that much is plain. Her maid, Nesta—for it can be no other—stomps her feet against the cold and her mistress takes the point. ‘I would speak with you,’ the princess goes on. ‘Perhaps your house would afford us more privacy?’

  And more warmth. I nod, holding open the door so that they may enter, but shaking my head when Rhodri’s boy attempts to join us. ‘We would all feel so much safer with you standing guard,’ I tell him, and he smiles happily, having not the wit to hear the mockery in my voice.

  The room feels crowded with the three of us standing. I indicate the stool and bolsters and we arrange ourselves at comfortable distances from each other. The two women look about them, Nesta with her perpetual sneer, Princess Wenna with practiced blankness. She lowers her hood to reveal her hair coiled sleekly upon her head, a band of silver-threaded braid across her brow. She is beautiful, yet the prince does not love her. Does it gnaw at her heart, I wonder? Or does she care only for his affection because it makes her position more secure? Why has she come? Why has her maid agreed to accompany her? Nesta’s contempt for me is widely known. She is a wise woman of sorts, offering herbal remedies and assisting at births. All for a price, of course. Nesta sees the value of everything measured in silver. To her I am a rival in the business of cures, and she is jealous, both of my magic, and of my standing. And there is more besides, for she is the keeper of a knowledge of dark spells. Witchery of a dangerous kind, little known or practiced now. She has no call to use any of her talents, and she should be thankful for that. Such poisons and hexes as she has inherited would not endear her to anyone. Yet I know she resents my position of trust. She is envious of the respect afforded me. And she is no servant, in truth, but her mistress’s cousin, and, as such, is not given to unquestioning service. But still, the princess trusts her. What has compelled them to visit me? For does not Princess Wenna, too, have her own reason to despise me?

  I push another stout log onto the fire, sending up a small shower of sparks. There is a moment of smoke before the bark begins to burn and new flames lick hungrily at the wood. I turn to the princess, waiting for her to speak. She meets my gaze—one of the few who will—and keeps her voice level.

  ‘I will not insult you by talking of trifles, Seren Arianaidd. I have come here to ask for your help because no other can give it.’

  At this, Nesta fidgets and her sour face sours further.

  ‘How can I be of service, Princess?’ I ask.

  She hesitates, the slightest in-breath, yet her composure does not falter.

  ‘Prince Brynach and I were wed four years past, but our union has not been blessed with children.’

  Nesta can remain silent no longer. ‘I have said, my lady, ’tis not a question of time. Were you to follow my advice—’

  ‘I have had sufficient of your vile concoctions and undignified instructions!’ Princess Wenna cuts off her maid. ‘No more.’ She turns back to me. ‘The prince requires an heir, that is the fact of the matter. It is I who must provide him with one.’

  So, she has come to me on this! This most personal of all business. And yet, of course, for a princess there is more than what is private to be considered. And nobody knows this better than Wenna. For if there is not love to bind her to her prince, and no child, then all that is left is the fickle bond of politics. Should it suit our leader to no longer be allied to his wife’s kin, what price for her slender crown then? How much has it cost her to seek my help? Pride might have stopped her. Or the desire not to admit her failing to me. But I am being foolish, for her barrenness is not a secret.

  ‘Can you help me?’ she asks. ‘Are you able to serve your prince in this way?’

  Now I understand. Clever woman indeed! By placing her malady in my hands she has ensured that any failure to produce an heir could be laid at my door. At the same time, she knows that, should I succeed and she give her husband his longed-for child, she will take the credit. She will be lauded and revered, her position secured. Perhaps she will even earn his love. But should I fail, should no babe appear, then the shortcoming will be mine, even if it must be put about secretly that she sought my assistance. She will no longer be seen as the sole reason for a childless marriage. It could even happen that in such a case Prince Brynach would cease to find my company so desirable. Could that be her hidden motive? Clever woman indeed, for I cannot refuse her.

  I stand up and take my knife from its hook on the wall. Both women start, their eyes wide, their bodies taut. Quickly, I turn the knife in my hand so that the blade points toward me, and offer the handle to the princess.

  ‘Cut me a lock of your hair,’ I tell her.

  She takes the knife, and Nesta fumbles with the pins securing her twisted hair. At last, some falls free.

  ‘You must cut it yourself,’ I explain.

  She does so, with purpose, not taking some tiny wisp, but a bold hank. She means my magic to work, then, that much is plain.

  I take the hair from her, coiling it tightly. In my wooden trunk I find a small leather pouch to keep the precious lock. Tying the drawstring firmly, I slide the pouch into the pocket of my tunic.

  I remain standing and the others get to their feet.

  ‘Have you any instructions for me?’ Princess Wenna asks. ‘Is there any action I should take, anything…’

  She casts her eyes down, and for the first, the only time, I see the vulnerable young woman beneath the mask of privilege and position.

  I shake my head. ‘I will do what needs to be done,’ I tell her.

  Outside we find Siōn blowing into his hands and stamping his feet against the cold. He is making so much noise all by himself I doubt he would have heard an approaching army. At the sight of us he becomes brisk and arrogant, taking his place beside the princess importantly.

  The women pull up their hoods. Princess Wenna takes a velvet purse from her robe and offers it to me.

  ‘Your payment,’ she says, ‘for your trouble.’

  It is as well that the darkness shades the expression on my face. There is a silence charged with my own anger and the expectation of the three who stand before me. When I speak, I am aware my ire colors the sound of my words. The princess knows well how to insult me, and chooses to do so with her nephew as witness, so that the slight will be reported back to Rhodri.

  ‘I work for Prince Brynach’s betterment,’ I tell her. ‘For his safety, for his favor. I require no pieces of silver. A seer cannot be hired for coin. My gifts are not for s
ale.’ As if to give weight to my sentiment, a heavy cloud swallows up the bright moon so that the blackness about us deepens. There is no more to be said. The princess gathers her pride and her followers and turns for the crannog. I stand and watch as the three figures melt into the night.

  5

  TILDA

  A steady drizzle has rendered the landscape gray and blurred, so that Tilda is happy to be shut in her studio, turning her attention to her work. The feeble sunlight has compounded her lighting problems, however, so that she has resorted to candles and a storm lantern to light the space. She put a match to the fire in the wood-burning stove more than an hour ago, so that now the room is warm enough. Thistle, who has become her gray shadow, settles herself on the rag rug in front of the stove. The studio already has a familiar, cozy feel to it. Tilda sits in a dusty, glaze-stained chair by the patio doors, sketch book on her knee, attempting to reproduce the shapes and patterns she saw among the twisted branches of the crannog trees. She works with quick, confident strokes, her stub of soft pencil creating thick marks on the paper. She tries to recall the way the limbs of the trees entwined and crossed through and over one another.

  As if winter winds have tied them in knots.

  Her intention is to fashion her trademark large, bulbous pots, and to work onto them these intricate, flowing designs. She has not yet decided on colors. Should she use mottled, natural finishes, or opt for deep, rich glazes? As she chews her pencil in thought, her eyes look up from the page, so that she is unable to avoid staring directly at her cold, inert kiln. The sight of it brings home an inescapable fact. Without a reliable power supply, she cannot switch the kiln on or, should it work long enough to reach the needed temperature, risk firing her work inside it.

 

‹ Prev