‘Try it again,’ she says.
Slowly, he takes hold of the key and turns it. And the engine bursts into life, belching exhaust fumes, juddering the ancient frame of the vehicle, setting up a cacophony of squeaks and rattles, but it works. And it goes on working. Only now does Tilda dare look at Dylan. He smiles at her, not his usual chipper grin, but a softer, reassuring sort of smile.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Bricks, then.’
‘Bricks,’ she agrees.
Clearly sensitive to her nervousness, Dylan drives slowly and steadily, so that Tilda finds she is actually able to enjoy looking at the beautiful countryside they pass through. She has spent so many weeks at the cottage that discovering what lies beyond the horizon is an exciting event. The road climbs through the high rocky pass in the village of Bwlch and then dips down to follow the River Usk on to the Brecon Beacons, with their sharp, dark peaks and steep escarpments dotted with tough Welsh mountain sheep. The realization that she is able to even notice the scenery, instead of being in her more common, white-knuckled state, is an immense relief to Tilda. Dylan is an excellent local guide, keeping up a light chatter, telling her about points of interest along the route. By the time they reach the small market town of Brecon, Tilda is smiling properly for the first time in an age.
The first time since Mat died? Can it be? Even now, in a car?
The builder’s yard is well stocked with a bewildering selection of materials. Dylan admits to being no fan of DIY, but he is practical, and has helped his uncle maintain his old house over the years. Clutching the book as a reference, Tilda asks for a long list of items, anxious not to forget some vital piece of equipment or raw material. In half an hour the goods are paid for and snugly loaded into the back of the Landrover. It is a rare treat to have the company of such an easy friend. Tilda is aware she has let most of her friendships slide since moving to the area, and had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of a task shared with a willing helper.
As they set off for home along the short stretch of dual carriageway Tilda allows herself to compare this journey to the fateful one on the way home from her honeymoon. Anxiety begins to tug at the corners of her consciousness as she recalls the heavy rain on the motorway that day, in contrast to the clear skies and sunshine today. And she hadn’t been driving fast. Not as fast, in fact, as Dylan is driving now. Perhaps he has forgotten how reluctant his passenger was to set foot in his vehicle, or maybe he, too, is buoyed up by the lighthearted mood of the day. Either way, the battered Landrover is traveling considerably faster than it had done on the outward journey. Tilda experiences a dizzying wave of panic as the road rushes past her. She begins to sweat, and finds her breath catching in her throat. She focuses on the low hill in the middle distance.
Just a few more miles. The lake is on the other side of that hill, and then just a few more minutes to the cottage. Keep steady.
‘Tilda?’ Dylan has noticed something is wrong. ‘Are you okay?’
She nods, searching for her voice. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit … it’s nothing.’
‘You sure? Do you want some air? You have to slide the window open. Here, let me help you.’ Keeping his eye on the road, he reaches across her and undoes the fastener on the elderly passenger window before pushing at it to gain an inch or two of air.
As he leans toward her, in that instant, Tilda experiences a confusing muddle of emotions. The sense of such closeness to this strong, attractive young man, who at least in those ways cannot help but bring back memories of Mat, the giddiness brought on by the unfamiliar motion and speed of the car, and her own heightened levels of anxiety, all combine to make her feel light-headed, disoriented, strangely unreal, as if she is floating away from the moment. Or away from herself.
Stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. I was fine earlier. Stupid woman, pull yourself together.
‘Any better?’ Dylan asks, clearly concerned.
Tilda turns to say yes, to attempt to reassure him, and to convince herself, that she is okay. And as she does so she sees what is in the seat behind him. Or rather, who. The dark, shabby, broken figure of the woman from her visions sits as solidly as any living breathing person. Tilda gasps. The woman, the ghost, whatever it is, turns its ruined, ghastly face slowly, slowly, slowly toward Tilda.
And then it springs.
It leaps where there is no space to leap, hurling itself forward, over, no through the seats, smashed hands and twisted fingers outstretched as it flings its shattered self at Tilda.
And Tilda screams. She cannot do otherwise. She throws her arms over her head, and screams and screams and screams, causing Dylan to swerve dangerously, the Landrover lurching to one side, sliding, until he is able to bring it back under control and stop at the side of the road.
Tilda feels hands tightly gripping her arms, and for a moment thinks the ghoulish nightmare has her in its clutches.
‘Tilda!’ Dylan’s voice cuts through her terror. ‘Tilda, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe, look, we’ve stopped. There’s nothing to be scared of. Open your eyes and look.’
Panting, gulping air, she does as he says, scarcely daring to glance into the back of the vehicle. The vision has ended. The apparition gone. There is only her and Dylan. He sees her looking into the back of the car.
‘There’s nothing there, see? Just bricks, yeah?’
‘Bricks,’ Tilda nods, still trembling, letting him hold her hands now. ‘Just bricks.’
* * *
Dylan makes a quick stop at the shop in Bwlch to buy what he describes as a medicinal bottle of brandy, so that twenty minutes after arriving home he and Tilda are in the sitting room, clutching mugs of strong coffee liberally laced with the stuff. Tilda breathes in the heady fumes as she watches him light the fire. Thistle has wriggled her way onto the sofa beside her and lies with her head in her lap. Neither Dylan nor Tilda spoke for the remainder of the journey home. There was too much to say, and the noisy Landrover was not the place to say it.
Dylan carefully places logs on top of the burgeoning flames before sitting himself down in the chair opposite the sofa. Tilda takes two swift swigs of her coffee, willing the brandy to give her courage.
‘So,’ Dylan says at last, ‘do you want to tell me what it was you … thought you saw in the Landrover?’
‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ she says at last.
‘The beginning’s the usual place.’
‘Nothing about anything is “usual” anymore.’
‘You could plunge straight in to the scary bits.’
‘Says the diver.’
‘I’ll lend you my fins.’
She is on the point of telling him. Of blurting out everything that has happened since she came to the cottage: the failing power supply, the way she can influence such things, the vision of the people in the boat, and the terrifying ghost who seems intent on driving her insane. For a moment she is almost seduced by the idea of sharing it all with someone who might listen. Someone who, she senses, would make a good try at understanding the inexplicable. But she can’t. It’s all too much, too crazy, too personal somehow, and she barely knows Dylan.
How well do you have to know a person before you can tell them you’re seeing ghosts? Get a grip, girl. This is ridiculous. Pull it together.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says as calmly as she can. ‘It’s been a difficult time. But I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this.’
‘I don’t mind. If I can help…’
‘I’ve just allowed myself to get spooked. New house. Spending time alone.’ She shakes her head and tries what she hopes looks like a brave smile. ‘You must think I’m barking mad.’ She finishes her coffee, letting the brandy burn a fiery trail to her stomach, letting it numb her whirling mind.
That’s better. Can’t afford to lose it. Not now.
He shrugs. ‘You haven’t given me a reason to think that. And,’ he pauses, then goes on, ‘… it seems like you’re not going to.’
‘I’m sorry. Sor
ry for screaming like that. Ridiculous.’
‘Something scared you.’
‘Like I said, I’ve just got a case of the jitters. I’ll be better. I’ll be fine. Really.’
He looks at her, regarding her patiently, clearly hoping she will confide in him. But when she says nothing he does not press her further, and she finds she likes him all the more for that. There are some things she finds she does want to tell him about. Some things, or someone. ‘It took me awhile to come to terms with my husband’s death,’ she blurts out, and, realizing how big a subject this is to suddenly present him with, hurries on, ‘I think, sometimes, that’s why I get jittery. Why I overreact. It’s not that I don’t like being here, I do. This is where I want to be. It’s just that…’
‘Go on,’ he says quietly.
‘This is where I was supposed to be with Mat. This was his dream too.’ She falls silent, biting her bottom lip hard, keeping her focus on the bright orange flames on a mossy oak log.
‘I think you’re incredibly brave,’ Dylan tells her. When she smiles and shakes her head he adds, ‘to move here at all. Uncle Illtyd told me, about your husband. How he died.’ A thought strikes him and he smacks his own forehead with his hand. ‘God, I am so stupid! The Landrover … is that why you were so reluctant? He, Mat, my uncle said it was a car accident. Tilda I’m so sorry, I’m such a fool.’
‘No, you’re not. Honestly, I have to be able to get into a car. It’s ridiculous otherwise…’
‘And it’s why you don’t drive? Why you don’t have a car?’
She nods. ‘Pathetic, I know.’
‘You are certainly not that! Like I said, I think you’re really brave, to come and live here on your own. After … after what you went through. It must be tough. You must miss him.’
Tilda does not trust herself to reply without crying.
As if sensing that her grief might overwhelm her, Dylan gets to his feet. ‘Come along,’ he says, ‘we’ve got too much to do to sit around here.’ He takes Tilda’s mug gently from her.
‘We have?’
‘Yup.’ He heads for the door. ‘We’ve got a kiln to build.’
Having unloaded the bricks from the Landrover, they set about choosing a level space in the garden. Tilda measures out a small square and they dig out the turf and topsoil. The ground is frosty, but not deeply frozen, so that the task is slow but not impossible. They compact the mud that will form the base of the kiln using a concrete slab to form the bottom of the hearth and give them a stable foundation on which to build. Tilda checks the dimensions and quantities in her new books and then mixes sufficient mortar to bind the bricks. They then tackle the challenging job of constructing the main shape over the fire pit. Throughout the rest of the day Tilda finds comfort in the purpose and effort of hard work. Hard work, which will mean she can at last fire her precious pots. She is pleased to discover she remembers more than she could have hoped for of how to construct the kiln. She had worried that some vital part of the process would elude her, even with the new books for reference. After all, building such a thing at art school was a very different proposition to tackling the job without any expert help. Dylan does what he can, and his support is a boon, both practically and psychologically, but it is down to Tilda to know what to do. To make sure the thing has no crucial flaws that could wreck weeks of work and render her pots misshapen, malformed disasters. The more she labors on—positioning the firebricks here, making the angle of the wall just so, slanting the arch of the roof this way—the more her confidence grows, and with it an inner certainty that this is right. This is what she should be doing, what she needs to do. With each passing hour the memory of the frightening apparition fades a little, receding into memory, walled up behind a protective layer of purpose, while her attention is directed at what she is doing. The end result, after much cursing and false starts, resembles a somewhat angular beehive. They have left two airholes, one at the front, one at the back, which can be filled in once the kiln is loaded. Tilda takes further measurements to ensure that the planks they put in for shelves will leave enough space to house her large pots.
Working steadily, snacking in preference to taking a lunch break, it takes the two of them several hours to complete the kiln, and they know they are racing the fading light. It is nearly four o’clock by the time they have finished and stand back to admire their handiwork.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Dylan tells her. ‘Got to be here to see the inaugural firing up of the little beast. Make sure she’ll get up to temperature.’
‘It’s not very beautiful,’ Tilda admits, ‘but I think it will do.’ She turns to Dylan and smiles, a spontaneous, sincere response to what they have achieved. ‘Thanks for helping.’
‘Worth it to see you looking happier,’ he tells her.
Embarrassed now, Tilda says, ‘I’m sorry about … earlier. I was a mess.’
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘I’d offer you supper, but, well, there’s nothing much worth eating here. You’d get a better meal at your uncle’s house.’
‘I bet you’ve got something in that kitchen of yours. Besides, I like a challenge. Years of mustering up grub in far-flung parts of the world stand a person in good stead, you know.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a chef in your spare time too.’
‘I’m pretty confident I can cook anything that’s come from the village shop.’
Tilda laughs at this.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh,’ he tells her. ‘It’s … lovely.’
‘It’s getting cold; let’s go in.’
He watches her walk toward the back door of the cottage and then asks, ‘Are you scared to be here? On your own, I mean?’
She stops on the path but does not turn around when she answers. ‘No. Of course not. Just, well, a little spooked. Sometimes.’
‘I could stay tonight,’ he offers quietly. ‘If you like.’
There is a pause. Tilda fights a confusion of thoughts and feelings. At last, she says, ‘Yes. I’d like that,’ before continuing on her way to the kitchen.
10
SEREN
A feast day has been declared. Prince Brynach is back from a trip north to negotiate a peace with the Mercian queen. The agreement reached was favorable, and a celebration has been called to mark the beginning of what is already being called ‘Brynach’s Time of Peace.’ In truth, I believe he was but a foot soldier in this war of words, for his ambassador, Rhodri, Princess Wenna’s odious brother, was responsible for setting up the meeting. He it was who brokered the deal. He who accompanied the prince to the northernmost border of the realm. He the one who wrote the words on the scroll that must bind all parties to this new peace. But the written words of men are flimsy things indeed. Cast that parchment into the waters of Llyn Syfaddan and they would melt to nothing, first the lettering, then the scroll itself, until all was washed clean away. As if none of it had ever been.
I do not trust the word of the Queen of Mercia any more than I trust that of Rhodri, brother-of-the-princess. And I trust him not at all.
The day of the feast is also the day of the first deep fall of snow this year. For hours the previous night the skies shed their burden until the ground was cloaked in white and all sounds were stilted and robbed of their echo. By morning the clouds were spent, so that the blue of the heavens could be found in the new, glittering surface of the land.
It is midday, and the revelries are set to begin. I reluctantly make my way toward the crannog. I dislike crowds. I more strongly dislike gatherings for the purpose of carousing and indulging any and all vices to excess. Man is a creature who raises himself above his base instincts with effort, and keeps himself there only with continued vigilance. What profit is there in undoing that vital restraint? Why would anyone wish to reduce themselves to their lowest state, and have witnesses to that action? I have donned my ceremonial dress, for it is as Seer I am invited. Each present must declare his or her position, to show t
he breadth, wisdom, and strength of our prince’s company. To have one such as me as his boon is seen as an enviable thing. Something to crow about. But the cock who crows loudest attracts not only admirers but foxes also. Prince Brynach would do well to remember that.
There is much milling about and excitement on the crannog. The whole village has come, as indeed they must. Shepherds have left their flocks. Cattlemen leave their stock to mind themselves. The blacksmith’s forge is cold. The fisherman’s nets and traps lie in the bottom of his boat. For a few hours, everything will wait on the pleasure of the prince, and it is his pleasure that everyone should have a day of rest, a day of feasting.
Without the movement of horses or the common workaday activities, the snow is largely undisturbed, save for the many footsteps of the eager villagers, so that all appears brightly garbed and fresh, without mud, nor drab gray stone, nor weathered stick fence or winter-bare tree to dull the picture. Smoke rises from the hole in the roof of the great hall, and even from outside it is possible to breathe in the sweet aroma of the roasting hogs within. I feel disquieted as I pause before entering, though I am uncertain as to the cause. I know I will face Nesta and Princess Wenna, and neither will be pleased to see me. I know that I must tolerate the unwelcome company of Rhodri and his pimpled son. I know also that I will be in the presence of my prince. I fear that this last disturbs me the most.
Inside the hall all is color and noise. The fire at the center has constructed over it two great spits, turned by damp-shirted boys who labor diligently to ensure the even cooking of the pair of pigs that will feed us all today. For a victory in battle a steer might have been slaughtered, but however festive this event, it is still midwinter, with harsh months ahead, and a few promises do not warrant the same jubilation as a triumph gained by bloody fighting. Nonetheless, many here will be more than satisfied to eat good meat for once. The women have turned out in their finest clothes, with all manner of baubles and geegaws pressed into service to dress up a tired kirtle or pinafore. The men have scrubbed themselves to a ruddy shine and all wear anything that might be classed as a weapon. For whose benefit this mummer’s attempt at a show of might is made I am not clear. Their own, I must assume. A top table has been set, with chairs and places ready for our noble family when they see fit to arrive. Down the side of the hall are benches and low tables for the lesser mortals to sit at and take their food and drink. At the far end of the hall is space for the musicians and dancing that will come later. Children dart excitedly between the adults, and there is an air of cheerful expectancy and general goodwill. I am courteously greeted and acknowledged by those who see me. They do not count me friend, for they are too afraid of what I am and what I do. Rather, they see me as a useful asset; one who might divine disaster, so allowing it to be avoided. They know I travel to places they cannot, and that frightens them. Yet at the same time they are pleased to have me act on their behalf, to risk my soul, my safety, for their protection. Do they believe I care for them, as their milksop priest would have them believe he does? He readily professes God’s love for them and his own as if they were the same. He entreats them to love one another, to forgive their enemies. I was taught to use my skills against anyone who would declare himself enemy. Forgiveness is for mothers of small children, for wronged wives to give and petty thieves to receive. It is not for rulers or warriors. I do not love mankind. I cannot view the herd as any more than that. I keep my love for those deserving of it, and they are few enough.
The Silver Witch Page 14