The Silver Witch (29 page)

‘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 tears 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.

The birds are already awake, sweetening the air with their song. Nighttime animals scuttle to their burrows and lairs, making way for the heavier tread of those who go abroad in daylight hours. My progress is slow, as I must halt frequently to allow my body to cramp or surge. I am wearing a loose linen kirtle and carry a soft woolen blanket and my knife. I need nothing more. Placing my palm over my heaving belly I whisper, ‘Be patient, little one.' I continue through the copse to the secluded spot on the shore of the lake I have chosen. Here the ground slopes gently into the water, and the earth is sandy with few stones and no reeds or rushes, so that after some effort I am able to lie down comfortably enough. The second I immerse my body in the silky waters of Llyn Syfaddan, I feel my pains ease. The child continues to move inside me as it should, but my suffering is greatly reduced by the magical properties of the sacred lake. I have foreseen this moment. I have nothing to fear. And whatever my prince might secretly wish for, I know that my babe is a girl. I have chosen not to share this knowledge with him. Let him hold his infant in his arms, let him gaze into her eyes, let him feel her tiny heart beat strong and brave in her breast—he will have no room in his soul for disappointment then.

As I work to bring my child into this world, I can feel vibrations through the water and I know the Afanc is near. She has come to witness the birth of a new witch. Knowing that she is with me gives me strength. I do not want to cry out, for to do so might give me away. There have been no further attempts on my life, but I have scarce been on my own, and here and now I am certainly at my most vulnerable. I close my eyes and quiet my clamoring thoughts. I bring my will and my strength to bear and with neither fuss nor ceremony my daughter slips from me into the life-giving lake water. I quickly lift her up. Oh! She is a most miraculous thing! So small and yet so fierce. She is the mirror of myself. I see the light in her soul shining from her. Like me, she has been kissed with magic. Like me, she will be a child of the moonlight. Like me, she will be under the protection of grandmother-Afanc.

‘Welcome, my little one,' I kiss her brow. She does not cry, but looks about her, tiny fists clenched, calm but aware even now of where she is. Of what she is. And my joy manifests itself in a glowing light, tinged blue, that surrounds myself and my babe.

The surface of the lake bubbles. I hold my breath. Will she come closer? Will she show herself, even as the day brightens and she could so easily be seen? I take my knife and swiftly cut the snaking rope that has nourished my infant these long months. I wrap the child in the woolen blanket and hold her to me as I stand. Together we watch and wait. There is a stillness in the air, as if the very woods were also stopped from breathing. The birds hush. Ripples spin out across the lake. And now, silently, with such grace as to move the hardest of hearts to weeping, the Afanc rises up from the deep. She is even more beautiful revealed in the early sunshine! I lift up my newborn, holding her high. She neither wails nor whimpers. She is not afraid. The mother-of-the-lake lowers her noble head to inspect this tiny new prophet.

‘She will keep your secret as I have done,' I promise.