Yes, these. On my pots, these would work. The animals, in particular, I think.
But it is too late in the day, and too dark in the sitting room, to attempt sketching. Instead she puts the book aside and chooses the next. A moment’s turning of the pages reveals impenetrably dense text regarding the history of the lake. Tilda feels unequal to the task of reading it. She knows there must be fascinating facts hidden somewhere in the plodding prose, but she is not in the right state of mind to tackle it.
The third book is the one the professor chose for her, almost as an afterthought. Only now has she had the chance to look at it. She reads the title out loud to Thistle.
‘“Myths and Legends of Llyn Syfaddan.” Hmm, what d’you reckon, girl? Might answer a few questions?’
Tilda has learned enough to recognize the old Welsh name for Llangors Lake. The book has a hardcover that creaks slightly as she opens it. There are slightly fuzzy black-and-white plates showing maidens with flowing hair, dark-eyed men on horseback, hunting dogs by the pack and one singularly strange beast. Checking the figure reference, Tilda explains to her uncomplaining audience: ‘That’s an Afanc. Scary-looking thing. Like a cross between a dragon and the Loch Ness Monster. Well, well. It seems our lake has its very own water-horse.’ Reading on, she learns that the Afanc has several legends surrounding it, some making it out to be a benign, misunderstood creature, others portraying it in a less flattering light. In one version the water-horse, which had the ability to walk upon the shore of the lake, was coaxed from its hiding place by a brave young girl of the village. She sang to it as it laid its head in her lap, and the local men were able to capture it. It was then either removed to another, distant lake where it could no longer devour the villagers’ cattle, or slain, depending on which story you chose to believe. Tilda runs her fingers over the largest picture of the beast, which shows it to have overlapping scales, a long, sinuous neck, and enormous eyes. Although at first glance she had thought it frightening, she now decides it was, in fact, a gentle thing, without fearsome teeth or claws, and had probably just wanted to live peacefully in the clean, deep waters of the lake. She catches herself believing the creature to have actually existed, but is not surprised.
Why not? If magic is possible, visions, ghosts … why not fantastic beasts too? What else lives in those ancient waters, I wonder?
With a sigh, she realizes the book has not, in fact, provided answers, but instead it has raised even more questions. And there are only two ways Tilda knows to work through a problem.
Run or work. And I’ve done a great deal of running lately, and precious little work.
‘Okay, Thistle,’ she declares, snapping shut the dusty book. ‘Work it is.’
For the next five days Tilda works in her studio, wearing many layers of thermals and woolens, her hands clumsy in their fingerless mittens, as the countryside around her freezes. She is able, at last, to fall into that near-meditative state that artists yearn for, where each sketch, each worked slab of clay, each finished piece, seems to move closer to the ideal. Closer to the fervently imagined perfection that skitters on the peripheral vision of her mind’s eye. Over and over, she sketches the intricate and ancient Celtic patterns. She starts with dogs, and then birds and then hares silently slip their way into her designs. She builds huge, bulbous pots from coils of clay, each one unique and beautiful in its basic, rustic shape. Onto these she builds her knot-work in thin strips, adding, blending, working, until the pattern stands in relief from its base while still seeming to merge with it. To grow from it. Gradually, over days, the studio fills with these generous shapes and their detailed, symbolic decoration.
Such exciting progress cannot be interrupted by mundanities like food and rest, so that all accepted rhythms to her day are slowly shed. She no longer bothers to fashion something from the dwindling store cupboard into a meal, but snacks and browses on whatever comes easily to hand, remembering to find something for her long-suffering dog when she does so. She does not go to her bed, but naps in the chair in her studio, or curled in a sleeping bag on the hearth with Thistle. She does not bathe, nor brush her hair, and even her running is abandoned. The act of creation is everything now, and she will not step out of it for a moment. For such a blissful state is an elusive and flighty thing, and could be gone in an instant. So it is with something approaching panic that Tilda eventually realizes she can go no further. Her own lack of planning, her refusal to face up to and deal with what has been happening to her, and the effects these changes have had on the way she lives, these things now force her to stop. For the next step is to test her dreamed-of glazes and fire her pots. And still she has no power for the kiln.
Draining the last of her mug of tea, she moves stiffly over to her sleeping bag and wriggles inside it. Her hands are dry and rough from working with the clay. Her shoulders ache from hours hunched over her workbench. Her stomach growls from lack of sensible food. Thistle comes, wagging, to snuggle up beside her, and within minutes the pair are drifting into a restless sleep. Just as the sharp edges of wakefulness begin to dull, Tilda is jolted awake. At first she thinks she has heard something, but then she realizes, with a flash of fear that sends adrenalin shooting through her veins, that she has sensed somebody close. Somebody is in the studio with her. Thistle lifts her head and begins to whimper. Nothing could so effectively have increased her mistress’s alarm. In the half-light of the winter’s afternoon, Tilda scans the room, not daring to move even her head as she does so. Slowly a shape in the far corner comes into focus. It is a figure, a woman, judging by the heavy skirts. There is little else to identify her as such, as she wears a hooded cape and her face is obscured, partly by the heavy cloth of the hood, and partly by the shadowy quality of the available light. At her side, Tilda feels Thistle tremble. Cautiously, she inches her way out of her sleeping bag until she is kneeling on the rag rug, never for one second taking her eyes off the motionless, gloomy figure in the corner of the room.
Is it the woman from the boat? Is it her? I can’t tell. I can’t be sure.
Whoever it is, Tilda is certain that her visitor did not enter via the door. She never did anything as ordinary and reassuring as lift the latch and tread the frosty day onto the concrete floor of the studio. There emanates from the figure a vibration. An energy that, whilst it is most definitely human, is not of the real and everyday world. Tilda searches for her voice and her courage. She forces herself to speak.
‘Who are you?’ she asks. ‘What is it you want?’
The figure does not answer, but straightens slightly, seeming to become taller as she does so, and moves forward on silent feet. Tilda wants to flee, to scramble from her vulnerable position on the floor and turn and run faster than she has ever run in her life. But she finds she cannot. It is more than fear that keeps her pinned down. It is as if the approaching apparition has exerted an invisible, vicelike grip upon her, so that she is unable even to stand up. Thistle crouches low on her belly and has ceased her whimpering, her ears flat against her head, her whole body tense, whether for flight or attack Tilda cannot tell. Soon the looming figure is fewer than two strides away.
‘What do you want!?’ Tilda demands again.
Now the visitor lifts her head and the light of the dying day that falls through the patio doors reveals her face. Tilda lets out a shriek of horror. This is not the first time she has seen this terrible face. It appeared to her once before. This is not the lithe, youthful woman from the boat, but the brutalized, bloody and smashed face that showed itself as Tilda looked through her binoculars. It is an image she has been trying to forget ever since, but such a thing is not easily erased from memory. The nose has been broken, so that it is both flattened and twisted. One eye is closed with blood, the other bulges in its socket, sickeningly bruised and swollen. The lower jaw has been smashed by some terrible force, so that white bone can be seen through the mess of a mouth that remains, the teeth either broken or at impossible angles. The woman’s skin is a ghoulish gray o
nly where it is not black or purple from bruising and swelling. Matted hair, encrusted with blood and dirt, falls forward from beneath the hood of the cape, which Tilda can now see is saturated with blood.
Fighting the urge to retch, Tilda falls back, her hands behind her, and attempts to scurry away, but there is nowhere to go. A foul stench bursts from the woman’s ruined mouth as she opens it and screams ‘Llygad am lygad! Bywyd ar gyfer bywyd!’ An eye for an eye, a life to a life!
At the sound of the rasping, shrill voice, Thistle leaps at the figure, snarling and snapping as she flies through the air. Tilda watches as the dog connects with the woman, expecting to see more blood and devastation wreaked upon her broken body, but, in a heartbeat, the apparition dissolves. Thistle lands, growling and biting at nothing. Nothing.
Gone. My God, she’s gone!
Tilda struggles to her feet, her whole being in a state of shock, her stomach turning over, her heart thudding as if she has just run up the mountain. But she is alone, save for the bewildered and frightened dog. Whoever it was, whatever it was, that came to deliver its message, has vanished.
Tilda puts a calming hand on Thistle’s head. It was obvious that the dog was terrified, and yet she had found the courage to try to protect her. She falls to her knees and takes the still trembling hound in her arms. ‘It’s Okay, girl. You brave thing. You scared her off, see? She’s gone. She’s gone.’
* * *
In the hours that follow the visitation, Tilda knows she has to take control of her fear. It would be all too easy to pack a bag and leave.
Hurrying back to Mum and Dad, tail between my legs. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t live the life we had planned. Couldn’t hack it on my own.
They would welcome her. They would understand—or believe that they understood—without asking unanswerable questions. Her father would enfold her in his boundless affection, and she would be safe. But then what? What would she do with her life? Would she have to live forever with her parents? Would she always be too afraid, too damaged, too unstable, too fragile to lead her own life? And what if the visions, the inexplicable things she did and saw and felt, what if they continued wherever she went? Perhaps this was a time when running was not the answer.
This is my home, dammit. This is my life.
And so she finds it is possible to be brave for hours at a time, particularly when she keeps busy. But then the wind rattles a windowpane, or a draught slams a door, or the darkness is simply too deep and too long, and Tilda feels panic rising. Panic at the thought that the ghost, if such it was, will come back.
What did she mean? What was she trying to say to me? What can whatever happened to that poor woman have to do with me?
Tilda has done her utmost to recall the strange words the woman spat at her. She is fairly certain they were Welsh, but this is an opinion formed from listening to the music of the language between modern-day Welsh speakers in the area. She knows no Welsh herself, and can only remember fragments spoken by the apparition, and perhaps one word clearly. A word that seemed to be repeated and sounded something like ‘bewit.’ A search through her pocket Welsh dictionary—a housewarming present from her father—has proved fruitless. She is unable to relax, to let down her guard, and yet she finds the thought of leaving the house difficult. Worse, the ghastliness of the apparition, its vehemence, the aura of despair and anger it brought with it, all have combined to halt Tilda’s progress with her work completely.
On the second morning after what she prefers to think of as a vision, rather than a ghost, Tilda decides she must go out. There are things she has to do. The situation cannot go on as it is. She forces herself to write a short list of what it is she must tackle. It reads:
Get translation of Welsh word
Find out about any local murders or ghosts
Get food
Start construction of wood-fired kiln
The last of these missions came to her in the sleepless watches of the previous night. Her sanity, and ultimately her livelihood, depend upon her producing finished pieces to sell. And soon. She can bring her mind and nerves to bear on fixing the electricity to work her kiln, or she has to find some other way of firing her pots. Once the idea of a wood-fired kiln presented itself the choice was easy. A firing done outside, beneath the stars, heat generated by wood grown in this very landscape, her work brought into being via a method so natural, so ancient, so somehow of-the-place, it was, after all, the perfect solution. The prospect of building her own kiln excites her, and the possibilities the process offered—the curious, slightly random results such firings were known to produce—these things appeal to her more and more now that she thinks about them. She will use natural glazes, work them with salt to produce free and flowing patterns of texture and color.
These pieces could be something special. Something really special.
She has the space in the garden, and there is plenty of wood. She built a kiln of this sort whilst at art school, and recalls being delighted with the resulting pots. A few more pointers regarding glaze mixes at such uncontrolled temperatures would be helpful, but otherwise she knows she is more than capable of constructing a kiln that will perfectly suit her needs.
She pulls on her duffle coat, a woolen hat, and thermal gloves, and chooses hiking socks and boots rather than trainers. The sun is bright and sharp today, but the ground outside is still frozen, and the temperature low enough to bring on a toothache. She pauses in the doorway to speak to Thistle.
‘You sure you want to come? It’s very cold, and I’m not going to be running.’
The dog looks at her quizzically, head tilted.
‘There’ll probably be a fair amount of hanging about.’
Thistle gives up trying to make sense of her mistress’s babble and squeezes past her, through the door, and starts trotting around the garden, her decision clearly made.
‘Have it your way, then.’ Tilda stuffs the leash in her pocket, shuts what little warmth there is inside the kitchen, hitches her backpack onto her shoulder, jams on her sunglasses and strides purposefully after her dog. She has a clear plan in her head, and such method and action have given her some much needed courage. First, she needs to find out about women who were murdered, or maybe killed in battle, in the area, particularly if there are any ghost stories about them. If she is going to deal with being visited by someone so frightening, she has to know who exactly it is she is dealing with. Next, she needs to try to get those Welsh words, or at least the one she can recall, translated. As she is unable to use her own computer, she has decided to call on Professor Williams again. This time her questions will be considerably more specific. She knows this may mean she will end up talking to someone she barely knows about being visited by a terrifying phantom, herself being the cause of electrical and mechanical mayhem, and the other visions that have troubled her these past few weeks. He may think her quite mad. It is a chance she is prepared to take. Later, she will go to the village stores and stock up on food, as the cupboard at home is now depressingly bare.
The easy downhill walk is both warming and invigorating. As they descend into the valley, the ground is a little warmer, but still sparkling with frost, and the lake itself bears a thin glazing of ice. All the waterbirds have been forced to paddle on the icy shoreline. There is no wind, but only a distant, cooling winter sun, and Tilda and Thistle puff clouds of hot breath before them as they walk. The brightness and beauty of the landscape lift Tilda’s spirits, but her happier mood is short-lived when she finds that the professor is not at home. Having knocked on the low oak front door several times, she walks around to the mullioned kitchen window, pressing her hand upon it as she peers in. There is no sign of either light or movement. Thistle busies herself sniffing out a mouse trail in the vegetable patch.
‘Damn,’ says Tilda, only now aware of how fragile her newfound positive frame of mind is. For a moment she considers returning to the cottage, but a gnawing hunger tells her she must continue on the next part of her mission. S
he walks along the short stretch of road past the church and down to the lake, intending to turn left and loop around to the village that way. But when she reaches the shore, her attention is taken by the activity from the north end of the water, where the archeologists appear to be particularly busy. She still cannot bring herself to look through her binoculars, so she has not been able to follow their activities. She remembers Dylan’s offer to show her around the dig and wonders if he will be there.
Surely he wouldn’t go diving through the ice.
Before she has time to change her mind, Tilda climbs the gate to her right and follows the stony path that winds through the water meadow. As she nears the sight of the excavation, she can make out voices and counts at least five people, all of whom seem to be focused on a patch of earth set a short way back from the waterline. They are so intent on what they are doing that no one notices her approach until she is standing only a few paces behind them. Thistle keeps close, suddenly tense and alert, reminding Tilda that the dog has suffered at the hands of men before and might well be nervous of raised voices, mistaking excitement for anger. She briefly considers clipping the lead onto the dog’s collar, but reasons that restricting the animal might make it feel panicked.
‘It’s okay, girl.’ Tilda strokes her ears gently but Thistle shows no sign of relaxing. A familiar voice makes Tilda turn toward the large canvas tent that serves as the operations room for the dig.
‘Hello,’ says Dylan as he makes his way toward her. ‘Come to witness the great event?’
‘Sorry?’
‘They are hoping to exhume the skeleton today. From the grave they found. Or at least, that was the plan. I’m told the weather may hold things up.’
The Silver Witch Page 10