And then she sees it.
Huge and heavy and ancient beyond memory, powering up toward her through the darkness. Its skin has an iridescent sheen—blue, green, purple all at one time. It moves incredibly swiftly for something so enormous, its graceful neck stretched forward as it scythes through the gloom. It has a noble head, with a wide brow and huge eyes, shining and fathomless, deep set and ink-black. Tilda looks into those eyes and knows—just knows—that as clearly as she sees this magnificent creature, as surely, she herself is being seen. As the mysterious beast swoops upward and over her, Tilda fears she will be knocked down by it, crushed and broken, so that she opens her eyes, stepping backward, falling to the floor. The room is filled with swirling colors, but beyond this there are no more apparitions. The creature is not there. Tilda scrambles to her feet, putting her left hand over the bracelet so that she can hold it in place, but also so that she might pluck it off quickly if she needs to. But the vision is fading. The curious cry of the fabulous being she has just encountered weakens and dies away, as if the fantastic beast were traveling at great speed, singing all the while. Tilda stands for several minutes as everything around her returns to a more normal, everyday shape and state. Dawn is nudging its way above the hills outside, and shedding a weak daytime light through the small window. It is some time before Tilda feels ready to slip the bracelet off her arm. She finds she is both exhausted and exhilarated. Gently, she sets the precious band down on the table. Thistle has decided the excitement is over and climbs back onto the duvet. Tilda rubs her chilly arms, fighting an overwhelming fatigue, as she climbs back under the duvet, snuggling close to the dog, falling quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next morning when Tilda goes outside the coldness of the air and the beauty of the countryside take her breath away. There has been no further fall of snow, but the mountain has snagged a passing cloud, which has paused long enough to coat every gatepost, branch, twig and leaf in its vapor. And that mist has since frozen. Tilda has never seen anything so enchanting. Wherever she looks there are ice crystals, pure and sharp and delicate, frozen to every surface, even the wool of the Welsh mountain sheep as they chomp their hay from the equally frosted feeder in the field next to the cottage. Now a ceiling of high cloud diffuses the sunlight, softening it and removing the color from the sky. The lake itself is covered in a layer of ice that appears from Tilda’s viewpoint to be black. She knows this is an impossibility, and for a few moments is unable to do anything other than stand and stare at the wondrous scenery.
Thistle has no regard for such things, and busies herself following mouse tracks through the snow in the garden. The kiln has cooled completely now, and Tilda suffers a flash of worry that the winter weather will have caused the temperature to drop more suddenly than is good for the ceramics inside the little oven. She places her hand on the frost-topped brickwork. More than just a few pots depend upon the results of the firing. Her future livelihood is at stake, it’s true, but there is something more. Her hopes for these special pieces are linked to all the strangeness of this magical place. To all the curious things, the changes that have been happening to her. Will the designs have the quality, the impact, the strength, that she is praying for? Will she be able to make something of the strange connection she feels to the lake, its past and its people? She has slipped the bracelet into her pocket, feeling a need to keep it close. Taking it out, she holds it up so that the soft morning light picks out the hares and the hound, locked in their eternal chase. She considers putting it on again, but knows that the moment is not right to explore the secrets it holds.
Not now. Not yet.
She is still giddy from the events of the previous night. Still stunned by her experiences. Still in awe of the wonderful things she was shown. She has not yet had a moment to try to make sense of it, and a part of her does not want to. Does not wish to taint the beauty and power of what she saw, of what she felt, with the application of reason and plain old-fashioned good sense. She holds on tight to the belief that by pressing on with her work, by bringing her art to life, she is strengthening the magical connection that the designs on the bracelet and her pots share. The thought of that connection thrills her. And scares her too, though at this moment she chooses not to dwell on that. She shades her eyes with her hand and squints up at the sky in search of the sun. It is still obscured, but the brightest of the gloom is not yet directly overhead.
Too early to open the kiln yet. And too slippery for a run.
She is about to go back indoors when she notices a figure trudging up the snow-covered path toward the cottage. At first she thinks it is Dylan, but as the walker draws closer she recognizes Lucas.
Lucas? Why would he struggle all the way up here to seek me out?
He looks up, sees her, and waves. She waves back. Thistle pads over to the garden gate to inspect their visitor.
‘Good morning, Lucas.’
He stops, bending forward to catch his breath before speaking. ‘Don’t tell me you actually run up this hill,’ he gasps.
‘Not lately.’
He turns and takes in the view. ‘Okay, I get it. That is spectacular.’
‘The lake is completely frozen over today,’ Tilda points out. ‘Doesn’t happen very often.’
‘When I set out I thought it was cold enough, but now … phew!’ He unbuttons his coat.
‘No work on the dig today, then?’
He shakes his head. ‘Everything is glued together with ice. And we’ve had to sort out the lights.’
‘Ah.’ Tilda cannot meet his eye. There is no reason he should think any of the chaos at the dig site was anything to do with her. No reason beyond her own behavior, which must have looked nothing short of hysterical to Lucas.
‘Actually,’ he says, reaching down to casually pat a compliant Thistle, ‘that’s why I came up here. To tell you that we’ve rescheduled the lifting of the remains for two days after Christmas. I … thought you’d like to know.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘And I wanted to apologize. For getting so … cross. With you.’
Tilda smiles at the quaintly inappropriate word.
‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everything was a mess … all your hard work. It was understandable.’
‘All the same, I shouldn’t have barked at you like I did. I’m sorry.’
She looks at him carefully. The fact that he has considered her, considered how she feels about the dig, that he has trekked all the way up the hill to talk to her about it, shows a side of him she had not given him credit for before. And now she sees he is looking directly at her, levelly and openly, and she is no longer wearing her tinted lenses.
‘Coffee?’ she offers.
He nods wordlessly and follows her up the path to the kitchen door.
‘I’ve only just got the stove going,’ she tells him. ‘It’ll warm up in a bit.’ She pushes the kettle onto the hottest part of the Rayburn and fetches mugs and coffee. Lucas takes off his coat and scarf and sits at the table.
‘Don’t you feel a little isolated?’ he asks. ‘I mean, all the way up here on your own…’
‘I like solitude.’
‘A true artist, then.’
‘Not a very productive one recently. Until today, actually.’ Tilda is surprised to find herself telling him about the wood-fired kiln and the firing. He accepts her explanation that it was an artistic choice not to use a conventional kiln, and for a while the two talk about art and what it is she does and how she is both nervous and excited about opening the kiln. Eventually, though, the conversation falters and she knows they must return to the subject of the dig.
‘I’m sorry,’ she begins, ‘about … the other day. When you were lifting the stone … I didn’t mean to wreck things for you.’
‘You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault the lights blew out.’ He sips his coffee and then adds, ‘You were very … upset.’
‘I can’t explain. Well, if I do, you’ll think I’m crazy.’
�
�Do you care what I think?’
She smiles. ‘In a small place like this gossip spreads really fast. I don’t want to be written off as the mad potter on the mountain just yet.’
‘Ah.’
‘Look, I’m not an academic, I haven’t studied the area for years like you have, I don’t really know anything about anything, it’s just that … well … there is something bad in that grave. Something really bad.’
‘And I’m setting it free?’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘But that’s what you said, when we were raising the stone. Those were your exact words, if I recall.’ He wraps his hands more tightly around his coffee and breathes in the steam.
He’s scared. My God, he hasn’t dismissed what I said as the ravings of a madwoman. Not completely.
She hesitates, and then asks, ‘Have you … noticed anything? Felt anything, while you were working on the site? Anything … strange?’
‘It would be easy to get spooked by the idea of disturbing a grave. It’s not something any of us does lightly. We try to treat the remains with respect. They were a living, breathing person, once. We are digging them up from their place of rest.’
‘Except that this one wasn’t resting peacefully, was she?’
‘It certainly looks as if she came to a highly unpleasant end,’ he agrees.
‘That’s putting it mildly. You think she was buried alive. And that the stone held her in place while they shoveled earth on top of her. It seems so terribly cruel, whatever she had done.’
‘It’s a mistake to read the past with our twenty-first century sensibilities.’
Tilda shrugs. ‘They are the only ones I’ve got.’
‘We’ve had some of the test results back from the samples Molly sent off to the lab. We can pinpoint the date of the grave, almost to the year.’
‘I know you’re dying to tell me.’
‘We think 910 to 920 AD. And the body is certainly that of a woman, aged between thirty and forty. She was healthy, in life. As we’ve already established, she didn’t die of natural causes. Her diet included fish, from the lake, of course, but also high levels of protein from grains and regular meat. She was not some lowly peasant, whoever she was. She must have enjoyed quite an important position on the crannog. Until…’
‘What did she do? What could she have done to deserve such a punishment?’
‘We will know more when we get to the grave beneath her. Once we know the identity of the person she was most likely accused of murdering, we will know more.’
‘He or she must have been important, you reckon?’
‘More than likely.’
Tilda swallows more hot coffee. She sighs, unsure how to tell him more. Uncertain just how much of the craziness he will be able to accept. She considers telling him about the bracelet. He might well have some ideas about its origins, and she knows it would be of serious interest to him. Perhaps even important to the dig. But she cannot be sure how he will react.
What if he decides it constitutes some sort of national treasure? He might make me give it up. Might take it off to be analyzed. I can’t let him take it. I can’t risk him doing that.
Into the hesitation in their conversation comes the sound of an engine laboring, growing louder. The noise is familiar to Tilda by now.
‘That’ll be Dylan,’ she says, getting up and slipping her coat back on.
The aged Landrover makes short work of the wintry conditions and powers its way up the hill. He gets out with his habitual energy and upbeat manner, but even from where she now stands in the garden, Tilda can detect the change in his body language at the sight of her visitor. She feels uncomfortable at him arriving and finding her with Lucas, though she knows she has no reason to. After all, this is her house. And Dylan has no cause to be jealous. Besides, it is far too early in their new and faltering relationship for anyone to be laying down conditions or becoming in any way possessive.
‘You’re early,’ she says, sounding cross when she hadn’t meant to.
‘I wanted to come and help,’ he says, looking a little hurt. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Feeling bad, Tilda tells him, ‘Lucas came to tell me they are resuming the dig. A couple of days after Christmas.’
‘We can’t stay here much longer,’ Lucas explains. ‘Digs are costly. And it’s not doing the contents of the trench any good having them exposed to all this weather. Really, the sooner we get everything out and back to the university the better.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ Dylan says, rather pointedly greeting Tilda with a lingering kiss on the cheek. ‘Are you going to open that kiln up?’
‘Oh, it’s too soon, I think.’
‘It’s gone twelve.’
‘Already? I hadn’t realized.’ She looks from one man to the other, wishing them both somewhere else. Neither has any idea how significant this moment is for her.
‘I might leave it a little while,’ she says.
‘Really?’ Dylan is genuinely surprised. ‘It must be cool by now,’ he points out, and then, seeing her reluctance, adds, ‘but it’s up to you, Tilda. This is your baby,’ he says, smiling.
Tilda glances at Lucas, hoping against hope that he might decide he has something better to do and take himself off.
No such luck.
Dylan follows her gaze and says baldly, ‘Haven’t you got a hole to dig somewhere?’
‘Not today,’ he says.
Despite herself, Tilda feels the need to defend him. However much she might want him gone at this moment, she dislikes Dylan taking it upon himself to dismiss her visitor.
‘It was good of Lucas to come up and tell me about the plans for the dig. He … he knows it matters to me.’ An uncomfortable silence follows, which is not helped by Thistle slinking away from Dylan’s outstretched hand. ‘Oh, let’s open the damn thing!’ Tilda says quickly, unable to stand the strain any longer. ‘Dylan, could you pass me the chisel and hammer, please? They’re next to you, in the toolbox.’
He scrapes snow off the lid and takes out what Tilda needs, handing the chunky tools to her. She rests the sharp end of the chisel between the bricks of the door of the kiln, where the mortar is thinnest. Taking a firm swing with the mallet, she starts to tap, each strike growing a little stronger. Soon there is a gap forming. She works her way along until there is a space running along two sides of one of the smaller bricks. Soon she is able to wiggle the brick loose and then remove it altogether. She repeats the process with the next door brick. And the next. It is warm work, and her hand is beginning to blister, but she turns down Dylan’s offer of help. She works on. As the opening becomes larger, the pots inside can be seen.
Are they okay? Has it worked? Has the firing worked, or have I ruined everything? Oh, please don’t let them be a mess. I should have fixed the electric. I’m a coward. Why did I attempt this?
‘Can you see in there yet?’ Dylan asks, peering over her shoulder.
‘A little. Just need to get the next two or three bricks out…’
At last, the door is completely dismantled. Tilda puts down the hammer and chisel, whips off her fingerless mittens and drops them into the snow. She kneels down in front of the kiln. Something of her own anxiety has passed to the men, so that the three of them stare in tense silence as Tilda reaches inside the makeshift oven. Slowly, with the utmost care, she takes hold of the first of the pots and lifts it out. She turns and sets it down on the small patch of ground close to the kiln, which is free from snow because of its proximity to the fire. She sits back on her heels and stares at the large, bulbous ceramic pot in front of her. For what seems like an age, nobody speaks. And then, without warning, Tilda’s eyes fill with hot tears.
Oh my God.
‘Tilda.’ Dylan puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Tilda, that is bloody fantastic.’
‘It is,’ Lucas agrees. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s incredible.’
They are right. Through the blur of her te
ars of relief, Tilda can see that they are right. The kiln has done its work. The cold clay and gritty glazes have yielded to the heat and been transformed into something spectacular. Something magnificent. The base color is that of the rich brown soil of the lowland meadows. The rock salt Tilda applied so cautiously has pitted and pocked the surface, giving a wonderfully rugged, natural texture to the pot. The glazes have oxidized perfectly, so that the subtle colors she selected for the running hound and hares seem to flash and flare even in the low light of the overcast day. And through it all, woven into the intricate pattern the chasing animals form, there is the glimmer of gold, snatches and splashes of the precious metal, causing a magical sparkle and brilliance set against the dark background.
Thank you!
She forms the thought without considering who it is she wants to thank, but as she kneels there, the cold beginning to work its way to her bones, Dylan’s hand still on her shoulder, she knows that she has not created this wonderful, unique piece of art alone. Someone helped her. Someone sparked the ability within her to be able to do such a thing. Someone or something. She slips her hand into her pocket and takes out the bracelet, holding it close to the pot. The designs match even more closely now that the glazes and gold leaf have brought her own creation to life. And for a moment, for an instant, Tilda fancies she sees all six of the mysterious ancient creatures in front of her move, their ribs rising and falling, their eyes glinting as they run, run, run.
SEREN
It is nearly dawn when I rise from my bed. The summer moon was bright as a coin only a short time since, but now it pales in the lightening sky as an eager sun begins to make its presence felt. The young guard appointed to keep watch outside my house is sleeping peacefully as I step over him. He has not failed in his duty through indolence but because of the draft I gave him in his portion of the stew we shared last night. I knew my time had come. I knew also that I required no men to come running in attendance, with their inevitable panic and posturing and noise. This is a moment for myself and my babe, though I know the prince would have it otherwise, were it in his power to influence the event. He is not quite lord of everything, whatever he and his followers may believe. There are yet domains he does not rule, and the birthing of a child is one such place.
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