There is a fizzing sound and the screen goes blank.
‘No!!’ She looks up. The power is still on, but the lights flicker and stutter. ‘Not now!’ She takes a deep breath, knowing she must not get upset, must stay steady and calm, but it is so hard to do so.
I need to know who else was on that list! For God’s sake, just a few more moments!
Thistle gets up from her bed, coming to nudge Tilda’s leg.
‘I can’t keep it working! I can’t keep the fucking thing working!’ She stands up, gritting her teeth. ‘Okay. If that’s what I have to do…’ She picks up the torc and quickly pushes the heavy loop of gold onto her wrist. She waits. Nothing happens. Everything is quiet.
Too quiet.
It is the in-breath before the scream.
The room is filled with the roaring of a fierce wind, a sound from nowhere, a cacophonous noise that makes Tilda throw her hands over her ears. Thistle dives beneath the table. Tilda can feel the force of a gale against her face, but sees that this time nothing in the kitchen is being disturbed. Everything remains still. No cups crash to the ground, no books fly from the shelves, even the undrawn curtains do not so much as flutter. And yet she is painfully aware of a brutal force pushing against her, a pressing down, a buffeting and pounding. But it is only she who feels it. Only she who finds herself pulled this way and that, the breath all but knocked from her, the shrill sound growing inside her head. And then come the faces. Two, three, ten, dozens of faces, flashing before her, some old, some laughing, others crying, all with eyes staring intently at her, into her, questioning, probing. And their voices, mangled words and utterances in many languages, all gabbling and spitting at her, demanding of her, though she cannot understand what it is they are saying, what it is they want. She fears she will go mad, will finally lose her mind. She lurches forward, the whole room spinning, or is it she who spins? Nausea threatens to swamp her. A dizziness begins to take hold. In desperation she grasps the torc, ready to pull it from her arm. But then she sees another face among the many. A face she knows. Pale, and beautiful, and steady, returning her own gaze, unfaltering, knowing, strong.
Tilda chokes down panic and forces herself to let go of the torc. She pushes against the table, making herself stand upright, straight, using the power of her strong body to hold herself steady.
‘Enough!’ she shouts into the maelstrom. ‘I’ve had enough!’
It is as if all the air has been sucked from the room. There is a dazzling flash of whiteness. And then nothing. Silence. Everything as it was. Except that the laptop beeps gently back to life.
Tilda slumps onto the kitchen chair and frantically clicks points on the screen, searching for the document she was reading, dreading that it will somehow be lost.
‘No! Here it is, here! “… a boy not yet fifteen but strong and with green eyes; a woman past thirty but with good teeth; and a girl child, no more than three years, very pale, with hair clear as glass and eyes to match…”’ Tilda leans back in her seat, a tearful smile tugging at her mouth. ‘Found you,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ve found you.’
20
TILDA
Pulling on her running thermals and outer layers, Tilda deftly secures her hair in a single plait. Dylan has stayed the night again and is still sleeping deeply. It gives her such comfort, such joy to see him lying there, familiar, strong, peaceful.
And mine? Is he mine? Have we really come so far so soon? I should be panicking, surely. I should be, but I’m not. And that’s bloody amazing.
The previous night he had arrived with the dusk, the old Landrover skidding up the lane over the dwindling snow. He had brought beer and a takeaway curry, which they had shared in front of the fire in the sitting room. Tilda had wanted to tell him so much about what had happened to her since she last saw him—about the way the torc brought about such changes in her and the incredible things she was able to do when she wore it. But sitting there, devouring the delicious, spicy food, relaxed by the warmth of the fire and the strong bitter ale, she could not bring herself to ruin the peace of the moment. Could not embark on the difficult task of explaining the inexplicable.
Instead, she had told him about her discovery regarding Seren’s child.
‘So you really could be her descendent?’
‘It is possible.’
He grinned. ‘So you really could be a witch?’
Tilda tried to find something flippant to say, something that would mask how much this question disturbed her. Nothing helpful offered itself, and Dylan was quick to pick up on her silence.
‘Tilda?’ He shifted his position next to her on the sofa, drawing back a little so that he could study her expression. ‘You have seriously been thinking about that, haven’t you?’
She shakes her head and takes another swig of beer. ‘It’s ridiculous. Impossible.’
‘Yeah, right. Just as impossible as whatever it was that flung me against that wall. Or set fire to this room. Or made those lights fall on me.’
She turned to face him quickly. ‘The lights fell because of whatever … whoever it is in the grave.’
‘A witch, we think, don’t we?’
‘So you’re saying I could be like that? Do stuff to hurt people? Terrify people the way that ghost does?’
‘Whoa! No, of course not.’
‘Because sometimes it does feel as if when people are around me … bad things happen.’ She had said it without thinking. Without realizing that she was talking about Mat as well as Dylan. And that he didn’t see that. How could he?
‘That’s rubbish,’ he said.
‘You don’t understand. It’s not just you. My husband, Mat … the way he died, in an accident…’
‘Tilda, an accident is nobody’s fault.’
‘But, perhaps … if there’s something bad in me…’
He put his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Listen to me. Lots of people feel guilty when someone they love dies. It’s a natural reaction, but of course it wasn’t your fault. And it … your husband’s death, it has nothing to do with what happened at the dig, Okay? Bad things happen to good people, that’s all.’
‘You can’t know how much I need to believe that. I don’t feel anything … bad.’ She hesitated, still unsure how much she wanted to share with him. Still aware, even with what he has witnessed, of how crazy it would all sound. ‘What I felt when I put the torc on my arm … that time in here with you … What I’m saying is, it wasn’t bad. Scary, yes, a bit, and weird, God knows, but not bad. Do you understand?’
He nodded slowly. ‘There is nothing bad in you, Tilda. If you’ve found some, I dunno, let’s call it magic in that bracelet, that torc, then it stands to reason it would be something … wonderful. Like you.’ He paused, then went on, ‘You must miss him very much. Mat. It can’t have been easy for you, starting a new life here without him.’
‘It wasn’t. It took me a long time to feel … right. But, you know, I do think I belong. I always thought that. And now it makes more sense. And…’
He waited, watching, and she could sense how much what she was saying mattered to him.
‘… and it is getting easier,’ she told him, with a faltering smile. ‘I do feel differently now.’
Later, in the quiet watches of the night, she had thought about how deeply she had come to care about Dylan, and how much the fact that he tried to understand meant to her. She had at last begun to let go of Mat, and it was Dylan who had helped her do that. She decided that it was up to her to act. To protect them both. She knew he would want to help, but she knew also that she was not going to put him in danger. Being close to her put him at risk, the falling lights had shown her that.
Once downstairs she hesitates, but there is no decision to be made. She knows what she has to do. Tomorrow Lucas will resume the dig and remove the body. She has to act now. She slips the gold torc into her fleece pocket and jams on her beanie. Thistle stretches elaborately and stands wagging at the back door.
‘
Okay, you can come, but it’s been thawing, there’s not much snow left to play in,’ Tilda warns her. She crouches down and hugs the dog. ‘You know what? I could do with a bit of help today.’
Outside, the snow has shriveled off the tarmac of the lane, but remains in slushy lumps on the fields and paths. By the time they reach the track around the lake, a steady drizzle has begun. Tilda regrets not putting on a waterproof jacket, but knows her fleece will keep out the wet for the hour or so she plans to be out, and she can move faster like this. If Thistle minds the rain she doesn’t show it, but bounds happily along beside her mistress.
It is so good to be running again! Come on, fleet, old feet. Pace, push, breathe. Pace, push, breathe. One step at a time. That’s how to tackle stuff. One thing at a time.
She runs on. The countryside looks drab as the snow is melted by the rain, turning the scenery from white to gray. On the lake, geese take to the deeper water, grateful for the thaw, untroubled by the lack of sparkle or sunshine. A long-legged heron prods around in the shallows. Tilda allows herself to revisit what she’s learned over the last couple of days. Seren did not survive the attack; she has to accept that was what she was shown in the vision in the museum. She had a baby daughter, and that child was taken prisoner, and later sent to live in Wessex.
So, the line continued. It really can be true. They are my ancestors. My family. All this crazy stuff, all the different ways I have felt connected since I came here—the designs on my ceramics and the torc; what the torc does for me; what I’ve seen; Seren, even the terrible being from the dig—it’s all because this is where everything started. This is where I started. This is where I belong, and where that mad spark of magic in me came from. Seren. The Afanc. The lake. Me. Here.
The notion that she is descended from the woman she saw in the boat, from the woman who she sees when she puts a loop of gold around her arm, somehow this makes sense of everything. She was meant to live here, in this magical place. She was meant to reconnect with her heritage. She cannot believe that coincidence alone has brought her here. She and Mat had visited the area several times before buying the cottage, and she had always felt an inexplicable affinity with the place. An affinity that surprised her, given her fear of water. When they had found Ty Gwyn, the cottage had felt so right, almost as if it had been waiting for them. But she had dismissed this feeling as one hundreds of house hunters experience after months of looking for their perfect home.
Only for me, it was more than that. This is my home.
And Thistle had found the torc.
And I found Thistle. Or did she find me, I wonder?
The timing of the dig seemed to be another factor that had heightened the chances of such a strong connection being made with the past. The ghost of the person in the grave was being disturbed, and that disturbance had led it to seek out Tilda.
Why me? What did my ancestor have to do with the person in the grave? There must have been something that happened, something huge.
She stops running. Thistle stops too, looking at her, ears pricked, waiting.
‘We have to go to the grave.’ She forms the statement aloud to the dog, but it is herself she needs confirmation from. ‘Tomorrow they’ll lift the body out. After that, well, there’ll be no getting the genie back in the bottle. Think I’d rather face her now, when that heavy stone weighs things a little in my favor.’ She turns down the path that will take her to the dig site. The going is horribly slippery, and the rain has increased so that it is starting to work through the fabric of her clothing. She spits away the water that courses down her face and increases her speed. As she approaches, she is relieved to see that the site is deserted. She imagines everyone will be away celebrating Christmas with their families for as long as possible before returning to raise the remains. There is something eerie about the empty tent, the abandoned trench and the general feeling of loneliness that permeates the place. She sets her mind against the wriggle of fear that is working its way in.
This is no time to get jittery. I can do this. I have to do this. That thing has got to see that I’m not going to be terrified by it anymore. That it has to leave me alone. I’m ready for it now. I’m not the defenseless person it thinks I am.
She reaches the grave. Lucas has covered it over with polythene sheeting, pinned down with tent pegs and weighted at the corners with hefty stones. The earth around the whole area is horribly churned up from all the activity of the preceding few weeks, followed by the harsh weather, and now the sudden thaw and heavy rain. Thistle stands close to Tilda, her body tense.
‘It’s going to be okay, girl. You’ll see,’ she assures her, hoping the dog cannot sense the extent of her own anxiety. She pulls out the pegs, moves the rocks and peels back the plastic. It makes an unpleasant rattle as she folds it into an untidy heap, a sound that seems startlingly loud amid the quiet of the early morning. Now the large, flat stone that pins the body in place is revealed. Tilda quells a shudder at the thought of what that stone signifies, of what must have happened.
Now, what? Do I stand here and talk to … to what?
She waits, astonished to find that she actually wants the fearsome ghost to appear. That unless it does, she cannot confront it. She feels her stomach turning over. It would be so easy for her nerve to fail her. So easy to turn and run back along the shortest route to home.
But I can’t.
She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to picture Seren.
Are you here? I need you now. I need your help to do this. Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you brought me here for? Where are you?
She opens her eyes again. Nothing stirs, save a noisy mallard in the reed beds behind her. With a sinking heart, she realizes what it is she has to do. If she is to confront whatever lies in the grave, she is going to have to set it free herself. She jumps down into the trench and kneels on the slimy mud. Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda ignores her and takes hold of the edge of the stone, pushing at it with as much force as she can muster. It does not move. Not one inch. She redoubles her efforts, tries again, gasping and cursing as she strains against the hateful stone.
It’s not budging. Dammit. I need a lever.
She looks around and spies some tools leaning against some stacked boards by the fence. There is a broom, the handle of which is only wood and would surely snap under such pressure. There is a spade with a good sharp blade, but still, she fears, it would not be up to the task.
‘Look, Thistle, this will do! A pickax. Just the tool for the job.’ She knows she sounds ridiculously cheerful.
And it’s fooling no one.
Back in the trench she works the point of the pickax beneath a corner of the stone, then she stands on the other end of the metal head, using her weight to try to pry up the slab. This time it gives a little. Not enough to open the hole properly, but enough to fidget and nudge the stone a fraction to one side. Even so, with this method it will take more time and more energy than Tilda has to remove the thing completely. She steps back, using her soggy sleeve to wipe rain and sweat from her face. There is nothing else for it, she will have to use the torc to help her.
She takes it out of her zipped fleece pocket. She is not wearing gloves, and the moment it touches her skin, she feels a zing of energy pulse through her. It makes her hesitate. She begins to doubt her ability to control its force, to steer its power in the direction she needs it to go. In the kitchen she had marshaled it, had mastered it, but only just. And that was at home. This time she is standing in the grave of someone who wishes her ill. Her running clothes are properly saturated now, and she starts to shiver.
‘This is rubbish,’ she declares. ‘I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m scared. Let’s get this thing done.’
So saying, she shoves the torc over her wrist. It catches on the fluffy thickness of her fleece, so that she can jam it no farther than her wrist. She hopes it will stay in place. All at once there comes the swirling sensation, as if she is on a fairground ride, and everything
around her blurs and spins. She plants her feet firmly on the uneven ground, taking hold of the pickax once more. This time, colored light pulsates in front of her.
Wow. This is what I imagine a bad trip feels like. Okay, just ignore it; stay focused.
As she slides the iron spike under the stone she can hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears, pounding erratically and at a worrying speed. She tries to ignore it, pulling all her attention to shifting the heavy weight at her feet, willing herself to use whatever it is that is inside her.
‘Come on!’ she shouts through the lashing rain. Setting her teeth, she hauls on the ax handle. ‘Move, you bloody piece of … Move!’
There is a grating noise, rough stone sliding over grit and mud and bone, and then it is done. The momentum of the slab’s own weight once it is in motion carries it over the edge of the grave so that it slews sideways into the dirt. And the tangled skeleton, twisted and broken, is exposed.
Tilda is just on the point of crouching down, reaching her hand toward the dark, stained bones, when she is knocked off her feet. She is flung backward, and lands heavily on the hardest, stoniest part of the trench. Winded, unable to draw a breath, the air driven from her lungs by the force with which she struck the ground, she clutches at her chest, struggling to make her body work again and take in oxygen. As she thrashes about in the freezing earth she turns onto her stomach, pushing herself up onto her knees, and all the time she can feel it coming, can feel the rotten soul of the long-dead witch in the grave rising up to loom over her.
Thistle barks madly, the only time in her life she has ever made such a sound. Tilda at last gulps air and leaps from the trench at the very moment the pickax swings through the air, embedding itself in the ground where only seconds ago she had been. She tries to see where her assailant is, to pinpoint its shape among the dark, choking mass that has risen from the grave. She cannot make out a proper form, but only glimpses part of a smashed jaw here, a blood-filled eye there, a gaping, broken mouth in front of her one minute and vanished the next. It takes a superhuman effort for her to hold her ground, to stand straight and tall and force herself to remain where she is. The dog is snapping and growling at nothing, driven almost insane with fear and an instinct to protect its mistress. Suddenly the ghost’s face takes shape and spews forth ancient words, some Tilda recognizes as Welsh, others that seem even more ancient, all spat with the same hot hatred and rage.
The Silver Witch Page 29