The Silver Witch

by Paula Brackston

  Gingerly, she moves toward the edge of the jetty. Her fingers are already losing their color in the damp chill. She crouches then sits, lowering her feet into the water. The intense cold is a shock. Her breathing accelerates as she twists around and lowers herself over the edge and in. The jetty is slimy with algae and her fingers start to slip. She gasps, clawing at the wet wood, but cannot get a firm grip. With a feeble splash she slides into the water, bursting into tears of relief and terror as her feet find the silty lake bed. The water level is just above her waist. Raising her arms, elbows bent, she edges toward the entrance, inching her way along the uneven surface. The sloping uneven surface. By the time she reaches the gable end of the boathouse the water is up to her armpits. She knows she is in danger of hyperventilating. Of being sick. Of fainting.

  No, no, no, no! Mustn’t trip, mustn’t stumble. Small steps. Come on feet, pretend we’re running. Running in slow motion. Fleet feet. Strong steps. One foot in front of the other.

  She pushes through the reeds, causing small waves to bounce back at her from the timber walls. She raises her chin as the water sloshes against her face. With every step she fights rising panic. Panic that threatens to send her falling into the water. Panic that might be the finish of her.

  She reaches the low boards that block the exit. The moment has come. Now she must dive beneath the water, push through into the unknown, fight the tangle of weeds and swim to the outside. She knows if she thinks about it longer she will not move, so in one desperate, sudden action she forces herself under the surface. The sensation of going beneath the water is more that she can stand. She loses her balance, falling through the twisted undergrowth, her feet sliding so that she disappears into the brackish blackness. She reacts as she has always feared she will, as she has always imagined so vividly in her nightmares. She inhales. The mouthful of water becomes a lungful in a soundless scream of terror. Tilda feels time stop. Her intellect tells her she must get up, must break the surface, must push up, grab something, find air. Her instinct tells her to fight and flail and clutch and claw. But the blackness is enticing, the silence seductive. And the cold, the bone-deep cold, has her in its tight embrace, numbing her will as well as her body.

  As she sinks down deeper into the cold blackness of the lake, Tilda thinks about how people say you see your whole life flash before you when you die. But no images of her childhood appear, no snatches of teenage romances, or family moments, or first foreign holidays. Nothing. It is more, she decides, as if she is watching her own death from a distance. As if she is a detached witness to the event, rather than the main player. She is not aware of any fear, nor pain. Just the seductive power of the cold, and the light-headedness a lack of oxygen is currently bringing about. She knows time must be passing at the usual rate, and that all she is experiencing is happening in seconds, and yet it feels as if these particular seconds have been stretched. As if down here, in the quiet darkness, everything moves to a different rhythm. Even her own heartbeat, which echoes softly against her eardrums, seems to have slowed effortlessly.

  Her mind is able to drift back to the moment in the boathouse when she knew she could not wait for rescue. She had sat and shivered on the wet, slippery boards of the small building, trying to see why the ghost had not killed her. Without the torc, without poor Thistle, Tilda was defenseless. She was easy prey. And yet the apparition from the grave had chosen to leave her trapped, rather than deliver a fatal blow. It made no sense, after all the other attacks, after what had happened when Lucas had lifted the grave stone, the way the creature had menaced and hounded her, why had it pulled back this time? She had made herself find possible explanations.

  It only wanted to scare me. But why? And it certainly felt like it was going to kill me when it swung the pickax at me. But perhaps I could have still reached the torc. Is that what it wants? The words it shouted at me, Life for a life, the professor said. But is it likely Seren killed the woman in that grave? If Lucas’s theory is right, and she was being punished, I don’t see how Seren can have been responsible for putting her there, so why would she come after her descendants?

  The more she had turned the matter over and over in her mind, the more she had heard those words. A life for a life.

  She wants someone dead, but not me. Wants someone’s life, but not mine. Who, then? Who else can have a connection? Professor Williams says his family came from north Wales, not around here. And his wife, Greta, she and her brother, Dylan’s dad, they came from Winchester. Not Wales at all, but Hampshire.

  It was then she had seen it. A possible link. A small, fragile thread, but something that just might tie the past to the present in a way none of them had thought about before.

  Winchester. The capital of Wessex. The place of the Queen of Mercia’s birth. And the place where she sent some of her slaves. Not just Seren’s daughter, but others from the crannog. Who were they? I must be able to remember. A middleaged woman, and a teenage boy. With bright green eyes. Like Dylan’s. Oh my God! All the time, the link was there and I didn’t see it. Professor Williams said Greta had wanted to move to the lake. That she had felt an affinity with it. She was researching the crannog and she must have got so close to finding the truth about what happened. And then she died, before she could find the final piece of the puzzle. Did she know? Had she realized the connection her own family had with this place? I wonder.

  Tilda had found it. Dylan was the descendant of the other slave sent to Wessex from the crannog. It must have been his ancestor who had in some way been responsible for the terrible end that the woman in the grave had suffered. It was Dylan’s life she had come back for. Now that she had that piece, more fell into place. The witch’s ghost in the Landrover had been trying to get to him. The falling lights at the dig were meant for him.

  Dylan!

  Now, in the water, it is the thought of him asleep and defenseless in the cottage, unaware of what terrible danger he is in, it is this thought that sparks panic inside Tilda. Only a few seconds ago she had been content to let go, to drift ever downward and become part of the lake. To accept her fate. But now, realizing that she alone can save Dylan, she is forced to fight for her own life.

  I couldn’t help Mat. I’m not going to let Dylan die too. I am not!

  She starts kicking. Her legs are strong, but the cold has numbed them so much she can barely feel them. She uses her arms in a desperate attempt to halt her descent, to propel herself up. She can still just make out the light above the surface, but there is so much dark water between herself and that soft glimmer. There is pain in her chest now, and a buzzing in her head, all telling her to take another breath. But she knows that to do so now, at such a depth, would be the end.

  Come on, girl! Just like running. You can do it.

  She has succeeded in stopping her fall. She is at last moving up rather than down, but her progress is so slow. Too slow. She can feel her lungs burning and her strength beginning to fail.

  Seren, where are you? Why don’t you help me? Please!

  But no vision appears to lead her to safety. No tall stranger, the image of herself, comes to her rescue.

  Is this it? Is this how I fail? Will Dylan and I both die today because of something that happened over a thousand years ago?

  And yet, even as this desperate thought forms in her head Tilda feels something shift, something change, as if the very water has taken on a different composition. As if her own body has altered so that it is no longer something in the lake, but it is part of the lake. Suddenly she feels that she is not flesh and bone, but liquid, her whole being melded and merged with the chill, pure water. She has lost all sense of being separate from it. She has lost her fear. The realization that she is no longer afraid, after a lifetime of fear, now, as she faces her own death in the way that has always terrified her, shocks her but curiously feels right. As if all along, down the years, she has been reading her reaction to water wrong.

  Not afraid, but awed. Not fear, but wonder. Not revulsion, but
… what? A need? A longing, somehow, that twisted my stomach to knots and made my pulse race. A yearning. All that time, all those nerve-tingling moments, not terror of the unknown then, but the rekindling of a far-distant memory. A memory that should have been passed down to me, but got lost, got confused along the way.

  She does not see anything in the water beneath her. She is not aware of another presence. The first thing she feels is pressure against her back. Feels herself being moved through the gloom, being moved upward! Her mind is spinning, free falling, on the verge of losing conscious thought, so that she is unable to make sense of what is happening. All she knows is that she is being pushed up, through the choking water, toward the day that waits beyond the surface. When she is almost at the top, she can feel the immense strength of whatever it is that has lifted her at such speed, so that an instant later she surges up, breaking the surface in a great wave, gasping and gulping air the moment she is free of the water. Her throat burns and she coughs, spluttering, ridding her body of the water she had taken in when she plunged into the lake. She thrashes wildly, fearing that she will sink again, but she is sitting on something that keeps her safely afloat. She wipes water from her eyes and tries to see what it is that is now taking her to the shore. Instinctively, she grabs at the solid mass beneath her, and is astonished to feel flesh, warm and firm, and to see what can only be a neck lifting up in front of her. The creature raises its head now too, and uses its powerful limbs with their webbed feet to swim gracefully and easily toward the shallows.

  The Afanc! My God, the Afanc!

  If she wasn’t already so shaken, so shocked and battered by her experiences, by the bruising blows from the ghost, by the deadly cold, by the bellyful of water, by her own terror and by that final alteration in her very being, Tilda might have laughed, might have considered herself finally crazy. But she has no strength for such rational reactions. She is able only to slide from the back of the magnificent beast and crawl on hands and knees through the shallow water and onto the lakeside. When she turns, gasping, head aching and fit to burst, it is in time only to catch a glimpse of the Afanc’s tail as it disappears beneath the surface of the lake.

  SEREN

  The dream precedes the vision.

  In my sleep I imagine I am lying in my prince’s arms, in his fine bed, a fire burning in the great hall, with no one to disturb us, no one to tell us this is not meant. Not right. But then there are noises, commotion, shouts outside. The raised voices grow more frightened and more urgent.

  I sit up, awake, shaken from my sleep by the sense of menace that had descended upon us. And now, my eyes open, aware that I am in my own small house, my own small fire burnt low, my own small babe slumbering softly beside me, the vision takes the place of the dream. Unbidden and unsought it comes to me, with bright colors and loud clamorings. A seeing as bold and clear as any I have had. Armed soldiers, pouring down the valley pass, encircling the lake, loosing hundreds of arrows toward the crannog. They spur their horses recklessly into the water between the island palace and the shore. Many are cut down by the spears and arrows of Brynach’s defending men, but the numbers of the attackers are so great, they are a swarm, endlessly running between the mountains, galloping on, stopping for nothing, so that soon they ride over the bodies of their fallen brothers, over the still-warm horses that lie bleeding in the water of the lake.

  I leap to my feet, causing Tanwen to stir, rubbing her eyes to see what it is that disturbs me. The vision has ended, but my heart remains heavy with dread. This was not some shadowy view of the distant future. The threat is real. The threat is now.

  I sling my cloak about my shoulders, fastening it with a pin, and take Tanwen onto my hip. Outside, the night is still and warm. The moon sits atop the hills behind us, its silvery beams lighting our way, my own shape described in shadow in front of me as I run to the crannog. To the prince. Already I fear I will be too late. I can sense danger closing in, and soon I know the thundering of an army of warhorses will shake the ground beneath my feet.

  The guard on the walkway to the island regards me with surprise as I dash past him, but makes no move to stop me. I run, breathing heavily now, straight to the great hall. Two soldiers stand at the door.

  ‘Out of my way!’ I all but scream at them. ‘Wake the prince!’

  These two are not so ready to let a wild-eyed woman run into their master’s home, however much they secretly fear me. However much they know about the child that clings to me as I run.

  ‘Hold fast, Seren Arianaidd.’ The bravest steps in my path, his spear angled across the doorway. ‘What is your business with Prince Brynach? Give me a message, and I will take it to him,’ he offers, his voice gentle, his aim to placate.

  I step closer so that only a hand’s span separates our faces when I speak. The guard’s eyes waver but they are locked in my gaze. There is nowhere for him to hide.

  ‘Tell him the Mercian Queen broke her word. Tell him to call his men to arms. Tell him death is coming to Lake Syfaddan, riding on swift horses. Tell him it is come!’

  He hesitates, for he cannot sense what I sense, cannot feel what I feel. He glances at his fellow soldier and sees fear there. This decides him.

  ‘Wait here,’ he tells me, hurrying inside.

  I hear voices, footsteps, weapons being taken up, and the prince appears, his expression grave. He knows better than to doubt me.

  ‘How long?’ he asks me. ‘How long before they are upon us?’

  Now that my prince stands before me, my heart aches to think of what lies ahead. Although I cannot accept the thought, cannot allow myself to truly believe it, I know that I have foreseen his annihilation. What words can I offer now? What purpose do I serve if I have failed to shield him from this moment?

  He sees what is written in my eyes and need not question me further. He shouts orders to his men, sending them to man the palisades, to rouse each and every one able to wield a sword or loose an arrow. He sends two scouts to ride to the top of the pass and keep watch. He orders the walkway to be chopped, cut asunder.

  The door opens again and Wenna steps out, alarmed by the shouts and the seriousness with which her husband issues his orders.

  Turning to me, Brynach clutches my arm. ‘Seren, take the babe, leave the crannog. Go deep into the woods and hide yourselves there.’

  ‘But, my prince…!’

  ‘I will hear no argument! This is not the moment to defy me.’ He closes his eyes briefly, snatching up my hand. When he looks at me again I see the sparkle of tears. ‘Take our child. Keep her safe. For me. And Seren—’ he pauses, glancing at his wife before letting go of my hand—, ‘take Princess Wenna with you.’ When I gasp he says softly, ‘She is in your care, and you in hers now. Do this for me.’

  I nod. I do not trust myself to speak, for my heart is breaking. Brynach kisses Tanwen’s pink cheek and then turns and strides away, doing what a prince must do, even when he knows all is lost.

  The three of us leave the crannog, as behind us men take axes to the wooden boards. In seconds the link to the shore is gone. Brynach and his men remain on the island, the villagers huddled in the hall, ready to face what is to come. For so long such a tactic has proved effective. Warring parties, opportunist bandits, even roving Vikings have been deflected and defeated in this way. But I know that this time will be different. The force that even now thunders into the neck of the valley is too great. This time the defenses will not hold. I know this, as does my prince.

  ‘Come!’ I bark at Wenna, holding Tanwen close. We set off at a run, but before we have reached the flimsy safety of the woods the earth shakes and we hear the battle cry of our foes as they descend upon the settlement. We keep running. We are nearly to the trees when Wenna stumbles and falls. Looking back I can see she has landed awkwardly, her ankle damaged. She cries out as she struggles to get up. My instinct is to run on, to leave her, to get my child away. But I cannot. I hurry back, and as I help her to her feet we both witness the terrible onslaug
ht of the Mercian warriors. My vision did not lie. The forces sent are more than Brynach will ever have faced before; the odds are impossible for him to overcome. The crannog is soon under a ferocious attack, with the Mercians using flaming arrows to strike at the settlement. I can see our people running to fetch water to dowse the flames, and being cut down by yet more arrows as they do so. I see Brynach leading his brave men. My soul screams out for him, for he can do no more than lead them each to a warrior’s death.

  As we watch, Wenna cries out, pointing to a small group of riders who have detached themselves from the main body of soldiers and are moving in our direction. I haul her to her feet and we make our unsteady progress toward the shelter of the woodland. Tanwen, unnerved by such torment and destruction all about her, begins to cry pitifully, but there is no time to stop and comfort my poor infant. Even as we blunder on, it is clear we have no chance of hiding before the riders are upon us. I push Wenna behind a blackthorn tree, making her climb in beneath its low branches, its barbed boughs a strong defense. I pass her Tanwen.

  ‘Take her!’ is all I have time to say before I start to run for the lake. My aim is to lead the soldiers away from my child, to divert them, so that perhaps, if we are blessed with the smallest scrap of good fortune, she will not be discovered. To do this I must make myself a prize they will be determined to claim. As soon as I am close to the water I turn and stand. They have already seen me, but I must be certain they are entirely engaged in their dispute with me.

  ‘What are you waiting for, sons of whores?’ I scream at them, throwing off my cape to reveal my hair, striking in the strengthening dawn light, and the patterns on my flesh, so that they might see me for what I am. Shaman. Witch. I take my knife and brandish it, raising my arms. ‘Does the Queen of Mercia suckle cowards at her poisonous breast? Does she feed her men on lies and beer only? What sickly creatures does she dare send to face Seren Arianaidd?!’