No power equals no firing. No firing, no pots. No pots, no money.
She frowns, biting hard on the wood of the pencil, resisting the voice in her head that is telling her that drawing anything is pointless because she cannot, as things stand, translate her designs into ceramic objects. With a sigh she turns and squints out of the window. The rain is lessening, and the grubby cloud is beginning to lift. She can barely see the lake, but there is a glimmer on the tops of the hills beyond that suggests the weather is, slowly, improving. Remembering her binoculars, she leaves her sketch pad on the floor and goes in search of them. There is a stack of boxes in the corner of the studio, which seems as good a place as any to begin. She opens and closes several packing cases, bracing herself for photographs of Mat, or momentos of their time together. Mercifully, she finds what she is looking for within minutes. Standing at the picture window, she adjusts the glasses to her eyes and scans the lake. The church is easy enough to find, its tower a dark gray shape amidst the almost monochrome landscape. Even the water of the lake itself has lost all vestige of color, leaving it a pool of liquid metal dotted with smudged birds of indiscernible type. The crannog is similarly drab today, and even the powerful lenses do not reveal any helpful detail.
A movement catches Tilda’s eye. She shifts her focus to the west of the lake and follows the jerky progress of a minibus approaching the site of the archeological dig. She recalls noticing it for the first time during her visit to the populated side of the lake. The thought of excavating the past in such a way both intrigues and disturbs her somehow. As she watches, the vehicle parks next to the large tent that appears to be the center of operations. Five people get out and are met by two others who emerge from the tent. Together they walk quickly to the staked-out area nearer the shore. Tilda turns the dial on the glasses to keep the scene sharp. The figures crouch low on the ground, and even in these conditions, through the poor light and the water-filled air, Tilda can tell that there is excitement among the group, with a deal of gesticulating and nodding and pointing going on. She wonders at people’s ability to become so animated over what seems to be merely a misshapen hole in the mud. Her eyes are becoming tired with the strain of looking at such distant and indistinct objects, when, more suddenly than makes any sense, her field of vision is filled with a face. It is a face so terrible, and so hideous, and so close, it makes her scream and drop the glasses. But in that split second, in that instant when the image filled her view, the awful details of that face have been seared into Tilda’s consciousness: the bulging eyes, the smashed jaw, the swollen and bruised flesh, the mouth open in a silent scream, the whole so distorted and disfigured she cannot even tell if it is a man or a woman. Tilda takes a step back, expecting to find this fearsome person standing inches away on the other side of the window. But there is no one. Just the view and the weakening rain. Her heart is jumping and her mouth dry. Nervously, she glances over her shoulder, but Thistle continues to sleep undisturbed. The binoculars lie at her feet. She forces herself to pick them up. Lifting them, hands trembling, she puts them to her eyes once more, holding her breath as she does so.
Nothing. Just the lake. Fields. Trees. Nothing … more.
Yet again she finds herself struggling to make sense of what her eyes—her unreliable eyes—are telling her mind.
Is my brain becoming as fragile as my eyesight now?
She directs her gaze to the crannog, but it remains a tangle of blurred branches. A small flock of inland seagulls descend from the clouds and land upon the water. The farmer has decided to bring in his cattle, and two black-and-white sheepdogs race across the field to gather them in. The archeologists continue to enthuse about their brown patch of excavated soil. All is as normal and as unremarkable as it could possibly be. All except Tilda’s galloping heart.
Her nerves are so tautly strung that the ringing of the telephone makes her jump again. She snatches up the receiver on the workbench, more than a little surprised to find it still working.
‘Hello, Little Rabbit.’ Her father’s voice brings its habitual comfort. ‘Not interrupting great work, am I?’
Tilda closes her eyes, picturing his dear face, fighting to blot out that other, terrifying one and replace it with her father’s, gentle, reassuring features. She is grateful for the normality his conversation will bring.
‘No, Dad. You’re not interrupting anything. How are you? And Mum?’
‘As ever. I am between crossword puzzles, and your mother has gone out to do battle with the local planners over the possibility of fracking, I believe.’
‘Poor planners.’
‘I think it safe to say the people of North Somerset can rest easy in their beds.’
‘It’s good for her to have a project.’
‘Other than we two, you mean? Indeed it is. I have even been left to watch the rugby unharried.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And you, Tilda? How is life up there on the mountaintop?’
‘It’s only a hill, Dad, and I’m nowhere near the top.’
‘Even so, not many neighbors, not a lot of folk passing…’
‘I’m fine. Stop worrying.’
‘I fear it is written somewhere in the terms of my parental contract: Fret frequently about well-being of offspring.’
Tilda bites her lip, knowing that she cannot even begin to tell her father of the things she has seen. Thinks she has seen. Or the fact that she has no power in the cottage. Or how only moments ago she was frightened half out of her skin by something that wasn’t really there.
‘I’m fine, really. I’m fine.’
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘That’s ‘cause I’m always fine.’
They both know this is not true, but that Tilda says it because she loves her father and doesn’t want him to worry, and he lets her say it because he loves her and doesn’t want her to have to talk about difficult things if she doesn’t want to. Which makes her love him even more.
‘Your mother is talking about a visit,’ he tells her.
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, ah.’ The line becomes crackly, but Tilda can just about hear the smile in his voice. ‘All the same, it would be nice to see you, Little Rabbit.’
And now Tilda smiles. Smiles at the thought of having her father close by, even if it does mean putting up with her mother too. Smiles at his use of her pet name again. The name he gave her when she was old enough to ask about the way she looked, about difference, about why one thing is thought ugly and another thing beautiful. He had taken her to a pet shop and helped her choose a snowy white rabbit with pink eyes, the pair of them agreeing it was the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.
And now she smiles with relief at the discovery that she is, after all, still able to smile.
‘A visit would be great, Dad,’ she says. ‘Really. I’d love to see you.’
By the time she puts down the phone she is feeling altogether stronger. The rain has stopped completely, at last, and she decides a run will chase away bad thoughts and strengthen her further.
* * *
As always, the meditative rhythm of running, coupled with the sense of well-being exertion brings, added to the uplifting effect of the landscape through which she moves, act both as balm to Tilda’s troubled mind and tonic for her body. She lopes down the lane, crosses the road and speeds past the church, forcing herself to return to the place where she experienced her curious sighting of the people in the boat. There is no mist today, but the weather, which earlier seemed to be clearing, has changed its mind, so that by the time Tilda reaches the narrow path on the south side of the lake the rain has set in once more. Her lightweight running gear is no match for the deluge, and she silently berates herself for not wearing her waterproof jacket. There is no wind and the rain pelts down hard onto the surface of the lake, causing it to seethe and sing. Soon visibility is reduced to a few strides and Tilda is forced to slow her pace.
Run steady, run strong. Head down, work arms, work. No need to ru
sh. Nothing to run from. Nothing to run to.
Just as she is starting to shake off the memory of the face that had so startled her earlier, she senses rather than sees something moving in the water to her right. From the corner of her eye, not daring to turn her head, she follows the ripples that glide along beside her. She fights conflicting desires; the first being to run faster, to put as much distance as she can as quickly as she can between herself and whatever it is that is stirring beneath the water. The other instinct, the stronger one, as it turns out, the one that wins, compels her to stop. To stop and to face the danger. She stands firm, hands on hips now, looking braver than she feels, watching the surface of the lake as it undulates in shallow waves that are still speckled and peppered by the incessant rain. Her ears are filled with the hiss of water falling on water, to the accompaniment of her own pounding heartbeats. Rain washes over her face, distorting her vision further. She wipes her face with her hand, determined to look, determined to see whatever there is to see. Slowly the eddies and swirls cease their forward motion. The water is disturbed in one place only now, directly in front of Tilda, only a matter of yards from where she stands, her breath held, her fists clenched.
Whatever it is, let it be real! No more ghosts. No more madness.
As she stares hard at the boiling lake, rain running unchecked into her eyes, down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw, a shape begins to emerge. Something dark. Something smooth, reflecting the weak, silvery light of the water-filled day. Tilda gasps, and then, suddenly, she is standing face-to-face with a diver, complete with mask, breathing apparatus, and wet suit. Tilda did not know what she was expecting—or dreading—but it was definitely not this. Not this slightly comical figure, which is now removing his mouthpiece and lifting his diving mask, to reveal a young man, dark skinned, with bright green eyes and a ready grin.
‘Good morning!’ he calls to her over the noise of the rain. He is close to the shore but he treads water rather than standing and stumbling in the mud that must be beneath his feet. ‘Wet day for a run,’ he says, taking in the drenched state of Tilda’s clothes. ‘You should get yourself one of these,’ he adds, indicating his wet suit.
The sudden relief, as fear and tension melt away, leaves Tilda quite drained and not altogether in the mood for banter with a stranger.
‘I don’t imagine you can see anything down there,’ she says, pointing to the lake. ‘It must be so muddy, and dark, and churned up by the rain.’
He lifts a large underwater torch, making Tilda feel a bit stupid.
‘What are you looking for, anyway?’ she asks.
‘Ah, well, I won’t know that until I find it.’
She nods, deciding that she has done her bit by way of being civil and can now reasonably move on. But as she turns and starts off the diver swims alongside her. ‘You should try it,’ he says. ‘Diving. It’s quite something, beneath the water.’
‘I prefer dry land,’ she tells him, caught between staying and going.
‘You call that dry?’
The question makes her awkwardly conscious of how she must look, soaked to the skin, flushed from running, beanie plastered to her head.
As if sensing her discomfort, the young man says, ‘I could give you a lift, if you like.’ He gestures into the gloom and now she can make out a small boat bobbing a little ways behind him on the lake. It has an outboard motor and is evidently anchored so that he can return to it after his dive. She watches as he swims out to it, takes hold of the side and pulls himself aboard. The little boat rocks wildly but rights itself once he is in. He slips off his oxygen tanks and pulls down his rubber hood, revealing a mass of black curls. ‘Come on, I’ll take you across the lake,’ he tells her.
She shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks. I want to finish my run.’
‘I can bring the boat nearer the shore if you like. You won’t have to swim. Though, actually, I don’t think you could get any wetter.’
His teasing begins to rankle. She knows how bedraggled she looks, and now she is being made to feel more than a little silly. Soon he will detect her fear of the water, she is sure of it. And then Tilda has an idea. A startling, wild idea. An idea that makes her pulse quicken again, and fills her with a curious excitement.
Crazy, girl. Too much time on your own. It’d never work. You can’t do it. Can you?
She stills her thoughts. With no clear notion of what it is she is doing, only a clear picture in her mind of the end result she is aiming for, she focuses her attention on the boat. She forms no words in her head, utters no whisper beneath her breath. She is simply still, simply pulled into this one place, this one moment, this one visualized wish. And suddenly, as if a key has turned in a lock, or a switch has been thrown to connect a circuit, Tilda knows that it is done. Her amazement at the knowledge of this certain fact brings from her a short bark of laughter. The diver looks at her, puzzled. She waves good-bye and turns to go. He calls after her.
‘See you on the other side, then?’
But she shakes her head, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Not unless you plan on swimming.’ And as she runs on along the lakeside path her footsteps are accompanied by the sounds of the young man trying to start the outboard motor on his boat. Trying and failing. Trying and failing. Trying and failing.
As Tilda had known he would. Only when she has reached the stile to the lane, when she has put some distance between herself and the motor, does she let go the captive image of the static motor. She releases her grip on the thing, setting it free from her influence. There is a pause, then the sound of the pull-chord being worked again, and Tilda allows herself another smile as she hears the engine at last successfully fire into life.
SEREN
I wait until the sun is directly above me, and then take my basket and head toward the woodland to the south of the lake. It is a dry day, mild for the time of year. Others are no doubt welcoming the brightness of the sunshine, but it is a trial for me. I wear my hooded cloak so that my eyes, sensitive to such harsh light, are afforded at least some shade. As I walk across the water meadows, the noises of busy lives upon the crannog start to fade. With each step the laughter of the children, the hammer of the blacksmith, the coaxing calls of the cowherd, all recede as if into memory, to be replaced by the less insistent sounds of the copse. The trees here are carefully managed. None may be felled without the prince’s permission, so that there is always heavy timber for building houses, or slender ash for making arrows, or logs to keep the people of the crannog and the village warm in the chill of the night.
There are few leaves left on the branches now, but still the light alters as I leave the open grassland and step between the tall trunks. There is sufficient shattering of the sunlight to allow me to lower my hood. I am aware of the heat of the sun on my face, still, and resolve to make a balm of chamomile and honey when I return to my house to guard against blisters. The woodland floor is yet a tangle of plants—ground elder, brambles, ivy, the remnants of rosebay willow herb, all tumble over one another in their scramble for space. Above me birds make the most of the fair weather. On an oak bough three lazy crows spread their wings to soak up the warmth of the sunshine through their glossy black feathers. In a holly bush a plump robin, full of his own importance, sings to claim his territory and warn off any rivals. A mother blackbird, browner than her name suggests, flits past at knee height before trilling her warning of my approach. How much more tuneful are the birds of the woods than the birds of the water. Ducks and geese make their raucous racket without once finding a note of sweetness, whilst these tree dwellers are practiced in the art of melody.
I cast my eyes to the ferny floor in search of what I will need for the princess’s vision and spellcasting, for my gifts are twofold. The first is that I am able to work as a shaman, to enter a trance in which, should I be blessed, a vision will come to me. A seeing that foretells the future, or answers a question, or offers guidance. There are times I find my visions in the flickering flames of my fire. At
others I see them rise from the moonlight reflected on the lake. They can come to me unsought, or I can chase them, in which case I prefer to aid my quest with the use of certain mushrooms or herbs. Today I look for the bright red caps of the elfin toadstool, which I will simmer in milk and sip in silent contemplation. The measure is of vital importance. Too little, and it will prove ineffective. Too much, and it will prove fatal.
My second talent is for the casting of spells, and for this I am called witch. Some put a spit in that word, others whisper it. I care not. The magic was bequeathed me by my mother, as she had received her own from my grandmother. All of us born to dwell in the moonlight, marked with the silver eyes and milk-white hair of our kind. Our spellcraft and talents are born of the lake, so that we know how to use its pure water and the plants and herbs that grow in and around it for our cures and spells. But only I was touched by the Afanc, our wise and ancient mother-of-the-lake who dwells deep in the cold waters. How proud my mother was to have her daughter so blessed! What an honor that I was chosen.
My skills allow me to act upon my seeings, and for that I, and those who need me, should be grateful. Princess Wenna will have subjected herself to Nesta’s remedies, some of which might have worked, had the problem been a simple one. But I suspect there is a strong obstacle to her fertility. One that even I may not be able to remove. Still I shall endeavor to help her. For my prince. And for my reputation. I stoop and pick moist moss, dropping it into my basket, and reach further for the tiny leaves of the wood sprite, a shy plant that hides itself beneath its bigger, bolder cousins. As I crouch low my senses respond to the musky scent of the damp earth and rotting stems of the more tender growths that will retreat beneath the soil for the winter. On a warm day such as this these smells are powerful, and a pungent warning of the bleak months that lie ahead.
The Silver Witch Page 7