But today I saw everything. I could see everything clearly without them!
She is still trying to take in this fact when Dylan puts the plates on the table. ‘Here you go,’ he says, ‘best local eggs from freest of free range chickens. And crumpets, ’cos you’re out of bread. And tea.’ He looks up at her, grinning, determinedly looking at her but not staring. Tilda is touched by his consideration. She thinks of going to put her lenses in, so that he might be more comfortable sitting opposite her, but now she changes her mind.
No. It’s okay. This is me. Let him see me.
‘This looks fantastic,’ she says, plucking off her gloves and sitting down. ‘I haven’t run in a while. I’m famished.’
‘Was it slippy, running in the snow?’ he asks.
‘Not really. Anyway, it’s so gorgeous out there, it was worth the risk. Thistle loved it too. Went all puppyish, didn’t you, girl? Look, she’s brought a stick home,’ she says, waving her fork in the direction of the dog, who is already warming herself on her cushion by the Rayburn.
‘That’s not a stick.’ Dylan peers over his mug of tea. ‘Looks more like, I dunno…’ He gets up and holds out his hand. ‘Let’s have a look, then, Thistle. Can I have it?’
The dog answers with a low growl, curling up her lip to show her fine, sharp teeth.
‘Okay,’ he says, backing away, ‘I’ll take that as a no.’
‘Thistle! What’s got into you?’ Tilda goes over to the dog and gently but firmly takes the object from her mouth. She is relieved to find her dog does not growl at her and even beats her tail against the dusty cushion as she relinquishes her find.
Tilda takes the thing back to the table and studies it by the light of the window. ‘You’re right, it’s not a stick.’
‘What then, a bone, perhaps?’
‘Yuck, no, thank heavens. It’s metal of some sort. Wait a minute.’ She goes to the sink and turns on the tap, holding the curved object under the running water, rubbing with her thumbs to get the soil and grit off the thing. ‘I think it’s a bracelet!’ she tells Dylan, who has left his breakfast and come to stand behind her to watch. ‘Yes, look, it’s brass, or bronze, or something. It’s not a complete circle; it’s open, and there’s a pattern worked into the metal … looks like…’ Tilda stops, her breath catching in her throat. Suddenly she can hear her pulse pounding in her ears.
‘What is it?’ Dylan asks. ‘Tilda?’
But she has gone, running, to the studio. He follows. Once inside, Tilda hurries over to her pots, the ones she has been working on all these weeks, the ones she has shaped and reshaped and carved and molded and coaxed into being. She rips off the plastic that has been wrapping them up, keeping them moist to avoid cracking while they wait for their first firing. She turns the nearest pot, the biggest and the most successful, so that it is facing the light of the patio doors. Her hand is trembling as she holds the bracelet alongside it.
Now it is Dylan’s turn to gasp.
On Thistle’s find, intricately and beautifully carved, is a singularly exquisite Celtic design, showing two leaping hares and a running hound. The limbs of the animals meld and intertwine in a highly stylized and complex pattern, so that where one ends, the next begins and where that one ends, so the next begins, round and round in a never-ending chase. On Tilda’s pot, larger and clearer, is, twist for twist, curve for curve, exactly the same design, right down to the rolling eye of the racing hound.
11
TILDA
As the Landrover slithers down the snowy road, Tilda is too distracted to be concerned about car crashes or flashbacks, though Dylan had sweetly checked that she was okay about getting in the vehicle again before they set off. The discovery that her own design matches exactly that of something dug from the earth beside the lake has shaken her. She and Dylan both tried to reason it out—common Celtic motifs, Tilda has a dog and recently saw a hare, both animals could have been found in the area anytime over the last several centuries. Perhaps it is just that Tilda has tapped into the language of the art of the place. Perhaps she simply saw an illustration of an ancient image somewhere and the similarities beyond that are born of coincidence. Or perhaps they are not. She cannot shake off the feeling that there is something more, some deeper connection between herself and whatever it is Thistle found.
One thing she and Dylan instantly agreed on was that the man to help was Professor Williams. Tilda had hurriedly put in her contact lenses while Dylan adjusted the stoves to work gently, before they jumped into the Landrover, which, for all its great age and shabbiness, is perfect for negotiating the snow-covered slopes.
They find the professor clearing his garden path, shoveling snow and grit with surprising vigor for a man of his years. He greets them warmly and takes them indoors. Dylan and Tilda both talk over one another in their excitement, not letting up even as they take off their boots and he leads them into the sitting room, so that eventually he has to hold up his hands.
‘I’m sorry, but all this clamoring is impossible to make sense of. Now, I suggest one of you take a deep breath and slowly tell me what this is all about. Whilst the other remains silent,’ he adds quickly.
Tilda steps forward and holds out the bracelet.
‘Thistle dug this up by the lake,’ she tells him.
Professor Williams takes it from her, snatching up his reading glasses from the coffee table and setting them on his nose. He peers at the curious object, turning it over and over in his hands. Next, he abandons his glasses and from a desk drawer finds a photographer’s loop, the lens of which will allow much greater magnification. He presses the device to his eye, holding the bracelet beneath a standard lamp. Which instantly goes out, as do all the other lights in the house.
‘Damn!’ says Tilda.
‘That’s curious.’ The professor looks up. ‘It’s possible the snow has affected the power supply. Dylan, would you be so good as to check the fuse box for me, please?’
Dylan exchanges glances with Tilda, but goes to do his best with the fuses.
‘Why not use the light from the window?’ Tilda suggests, impatient for his verdict, and fearing the lights will stubbornly refuse to work while she is present.
‘Yes, why not?’ The professor leans as close to the mullioned glass as he can, positioning the bracelet so that the sunlight glints off it.
Once the professor’s attention is focused away from her, Tilda is able to still her mind, close her eyes and bring her own thoughts to a single point. She imagines the power surging through wires toward the little house. She imagines a spark of electricity, a fizz of energy, as she wills the connection to be made once again. There is a pause, a flash, and then the lights go back on. Tilda waits, uncertain as to how steady the flow will be, but it seems as if it will hold.
The professor’s mind is so absorbed by what he is looking at, he barely registers the working lights.
‘My word, this is quite splendid. Where did you say your dog unearthed it?’
‘Very close to the water, this side of the lake, just before you reach the bird hide. Do you think it’s bronze?’
‘Oh no, look at the purity of the metal. Look at the color. Scarcely a blemish. There is only one element that can so resist the ravages of decay.’ When Tilda looks blank, he explains. ‘Gold, my dear. It is incorruptible.’
‘Gold! But, it’s really heavy; it must be worth a small fortune.’
The professor resumes scrutinizing the details of the treasure. ‘Trust me when I tell you, if this is as old as I think it is, if its origins fit, well, the value of the material will be of secondary importance to its provenance. Ah! Lights again,’ he exclaims, at last properly noticing the return of the power supply.
Dylan comes back into the room. He looks at Tilda, the question written plainly on his face. She shrugs and shakes her head. The bulbs in the room flicker but then steady again.
‘The design,’ Tilda has to ask, ‘is it … is it common? I mean, hares and hounds were often depicte
d in Celtic art, weren’t they?’
‘They were, though it was more usual for the hounds to outnumber the hares. That said, these particular beasts are more finely detailed than is common. See? Such delicate curls and lines, especially the faces, which were more ordinarily quite plainly rendered.’
‘It’s big for a bracelet,’ Dylan puts in. ‘Was it for a man, maybe? Or for wearing on the upper arm, d’you think?’
‘It’s possible.’ His uncle nods. He places the find carefully on his desk and hurries to select a book from his collection. Jamming his spectacles back on his face, muttering all the while, he searches for an entry. ‘Let me see, let me see, ah, here we are. As I thought: “Hunting dogs were often seen as a sign of status, and highborn men of the area would have regularly engaged in hare coursing or deer hunting not only to supply meat for the table, but as a sporting or social activity. However, when considering depictions of dogs, whether or not they are specifically hunting hounds, the more mythological significance of both creatures should be born in mind to avoid misinterpretation of the work.” Yes,’ the professor says, nodding emphatically, ‘particularly given the imbalance of numbers here. You see, hares are usually solitary animals, so the chase would be depicted with a single hare pursued by several hounds. This shows the reverse. Also, the attention to detail, giving such character to the faces, suggests something more personal, more individual, almost.’ He snaps the book shut and removes his glasses. ‘So, there you have it.’
‘We do?’ Dylan asks.
Tilda leans forward and picks up the bracelet again. The gold feels warm in her hand. ‘So, if it’s not showing a hunt, what, then?’
‘Well, what is so special about your lovely object,’ the professor tells them, ‘is that it is a marvelous example of the importance of mythology among Celtic people. Each animal had its place in their beliefs, in their folktales, in their ancient stories. Owls, for example, traditionally foretold death. Horses represented the underworld, or departed spirits. These creatures’—he gestures at the bracelet with his glasses—‘are slightly unusual in that they both often represented the same thing.’
‘Which was?’ Tilda feels a nervous excitement charge through her body, as if someone has just startled her, or she has narrowly avoided a fall, or escaped a danger of some sort.
Professor Williams smiles as he explains, ‘Hares and dogs are reliably accepted to represent witches.’
The next two hours are spent delving deep into the professor’s library, searching for images or references that might give them clues as to who made the bracelet and who owned it. Every now and again the lights dim or flicker. Each time, Tilda takes a moment to calm herself, to still her mind, to allow the power to work. After a while she notices that she is concentrating her search on one detail of what the professor has told her: witches. She is surprised to find few mentions of them, but what is written seems to suggest an entirely different view than the one she might have expected.
‘Professor, in the time we are looking at, let’s say between 850 and 950 AD, were witches seen as good? I can’t find too many references to them being persecuted or hunted the way they were in medieval times.’
‘Not good, exactly, but an accepted fact of life. Christianity was well established in Wales by then, of course, and yet we read often that many still held the “old religion” dear. Paganism did not go away, and witches were very much a part of the older Celtic belief system. Many communities would have had a resident witch who might have provided spells and remedies for healing, or to assist warriors in battle. Some foretold future events. They would only have been prosecuted if they had been deemed to have used their magic against members of the community in which they lived—putting a hex on someone they took against, perhaps, making them ill, or causing their cattle to die, that sort of thing.’
‘Do you think the bracelet could have been owned by a witch?’
‘That seems a plausible hypothesis. Although, given the amount of gold needed to make such a thing, this particular witch must have been very wealthy. Or at least, had wealthy friends; someone who might have given the piece of jewelry as a token of thanks, possibly. All in all, I can’t say I am surprised to find evidence of such a person living by the lake, whether at the time we are considering, or later, or indeed any time at all. Greta always told me there were things history could not explain. Things we would never find proof of but would have to accept as inexplicable. Magical, even. No, I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Later, after copious amount of tea and some chunky cheese and pickle sandwiches, Tilda thanks the professor for his help, deciding it is time to leave. Suddenly there threatens to be an awkward moment.
Is Dylan expecting to come back to the cottage with me? Why would he? Come to that, why shouldn’t he?
‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Dylan offers.
‘Actually, I want to go down to the dig and have another talk with Lucas.’
‘Oh?’
‘About who it is they are digging up. Though I can’t imagine they’ll do much in the snow.’
‘Ah, you might be wrong about that,’ says the professor, polishing off the last of his tea. ‘The ground is actually less frozen now than it was a few days ago, when it was actually too cold to snow. My guess is, they might actually make some progress today.’
‘They could finally be removing the remains?’ Tilda asks.
‘It’s possible.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Dylan walks with her as she heads for the door. Tilda cannot quite decide if she feels pleased or put off by how keen he is to spend more time with her. As if sensing this, he adds, ‘If things are moving again at the dig they might want to put me to use. The snow doesn’t settle on the lake, after all.’
When they reach the site they find that the professor was right. There is a buzz of excitement and activity around the opened grave. A 4x4 vehicle is parked close to it, with a smart trailer attached, boxes of soil and samples already stacked in front of it. Around the dig site, three tall metal gantries hold powerful floodlights aloft—the kind used to illuminate football pitches. Molly and several of the other archeologists are carefully packing things into crates, which are then lifted into the trailer. Lucas is directing operations with much arm waving and a fair bit of snapping at people. He does not look pleased to see Dylan, whom he all but ignores, but he does at least pause to greet Tilda.
‘You’ve certainly got a knack for choosing the right moment to turn up,’ he says. ‘We are about to remove the top skeleton and then lift the coffin and its contents. You can’t rush these things, you know. In the wrong conditions, one hasty move, and something that has survived for centuries can be destroyed.’
‘But you can work in the snow,’ Tilda says. ‘Because the ground is not so frozen?’
‘That’s right. The snow acts as a sort of insulation. We had the lights set up a couple of days ago in case we have to work through the night. Once we get started, there’s no turning back. We have to get everything, all the contents of the trench, lifted, packed, and moved into the trailer.’
‘I’m surprised I haven’t noticed the lights,’ says Tilda. ‘I can see the dig from my cottage.’
‘We haven’t used them yet. Tonight will be the first time. Or actually, this afternoon, the way the light is fading. We’ve got a bigger generator in specially.’ He indicates a large metal box on wheels parked up by the main tent. ‘You’ll probably be able to hear that from your house when it’s going, too.’
‘Have you found out any more about the identity of the people in the grave?’ she asks.
‘Various theories have been put forward.’ Lucas walks as he talks, picking up a discarded trowel and handing it to someone, tidying a loose coil of cable and generally fussing. ‘We’ll know more once we can open the coffin and see what grave goods are with the body. That the uppermost remains are those of someone convicted of a crime of some sort seems to be the most likely explanation, but there is another factor that
we are looking into.’
‘Something to do with the way they were executed, or who they were?’
‘Both, in effect. Turns out pinning victims of burials in place—whether they were alive at the time or not—was not the only reason tenth-century lake dwellers might have dropped such a huge flat stone on top of them. It was common practice—so Molly assures me, and I’ve never yet had cause to doubt her research—in the burial of a witch.’
Tilda feels a shiver that has nothing to do with the snow chase down the length of her spine. Without really knowing she is doing it, she takes hold of the bracelet nestled in her coat pocket. She catches Dylan’s eye. He looks serious for once.
‘Uncle Illtyd might support that theory,’ he says quietly, more to Tilda than to Lucas.
Although it is still early in the afternoon, the winter sky is filling with new snow clouds, and the dwindling daylight is already causing difficulties for the diggers. It is decided to fire up the generator and switch on the lights. There is a fair amount of running around and shouting. More than once Lucas instructs anyone not directly involved in lifting the remains to move away from the trench. After a couple of failed attempts, the generator powers up, its engine noise thudding through the still air, black smoke chugging from its exhaust. A switch is thrown and the overhead lights flare into action, casting their intense artificial brightness directly down onto the grave and its surrounding area. Tilda blinks, shading her eyes as she steps a little farther away. She is torn between wanting to see what is going on and not wanting to interrupt the functioning of the lights. She stamps her feet to ward off the cold that is beginning to penetrate her boots and thermal socks. She is aware of a dizziness, and knows that this time it has nothing to do with low blood-sugar levels or tiredness. It is the grave, or rather, whatever, whoever, is in the grave, that is causing her to feel light-headed, to feel somehow distant from the people around her. She is able to hear things above the thrumming of the generator. She can make out the heavy lapping of the water upon the shore, the chattering of a squirrel in a nearby tree, the beating wings of swans out on the lake. All her senses appear to be heightened. She is able to smell not only the acrid diesel fumes of the engine, but the mixture of sweat and body spray coming from the diggers as they work, the musty dampness of the branches of a large oak to her right, and the pungent odor of the ancient earth that is being, inch by inch, ever more disturbed. She can almost taste the moist, cold air on her tongue. The juddering of the generator, the stomping footsteps of those workers, the slight fizzing that runs down the metal supports of the arc lights—all these vibrations pass through her body.
The Silver Witch Page 16