The Silver Witch (22 page)

Dylan has noticed something is wrong. ‘Tilda?' he asks. ‘What's the matter?'

She does not answer him. She cannot answer him. For now, she can see a dark shape beginning to rise from the open grave. Lucas, Molly and two more archeologists kneel in the trench, and between them they lift the great slab of stone that had been holding down the bones of the deceased. They stagger under its weight as they lift it and tip it up on end, to one side of the body. Now, the skeleton is exposed. From where she stands, in the harsh lighting, Tilda can clearly see the broken bones of the corpse, its limbs lying at impossible angles, its skull tipped back, its jaw smashed, its brow cracked. And she sees the dark mass rising up from it, pulsating and undulating, and she knows that she alone can see it as it settles into the now-familiar form of the fearsome ghost that has been haunting her. It turns its gory face toward her, and Tilda watches as a hideous grin stretches across its shattered features.

They mustn't let it out! I have to make them stop.

‘Don't!' she shouts out before she has time to think about it further. ‘Put it back!'

‘Tilda?' Dylan puts a hand on her arm. ‘What is it? What's wrong?'

‘They mustn't let it out!' She turns to him, shaking her head, trying to make him understand. ‘They're setting her free. We have to stop them, Dylan. Before it's too late! Lucas, wait!' she calls out, running forward. As she does so, the apparition above the grave grows bigger, blacker, denser, so that she cannot believe no one else can see it. ‘Lucas, you mustn't…!' She stumbles, slipping in the snow that has been compacted by so many booted feet over the hours. She slides forward, all but falling into the trench. Lucas bellows at her.

‘What are you doing? I told you to stay back.'

‘You don't understand, you have to stop what you're doing. You mustn't set her free!'

‘What are you talking about? We've been waiting to raise the find for weeks.'

‘But the grave … the body … Molly was right. It was held down for a reason. You're letting it go, don't you see?'

‘Get out of the way. We need to get this stone into the trailer.'

Dylan calls down from the lip of the hole. ‘Tilda, come away…'

‘No! I can see her. This is what she wants. She's angry and she's wicked and once she's set free who knows what she'll try to do!'

Lucas is incredulous. ‘Have you been drinking, or are you just barking mad?'

‘Hey!' Dylan jumps down into the trench. ‘Don't talk to her like that.'

Lucas narrows his eyes, looking from Dylan to Tilda and back again. ‘Why don't you take your girlfriend home,' he hisses at him. ‘I don't need hysterical women messing up months of work…'

Dylan scowls at him. ‘Why don't you stop being such a pain in the arse?'

As the two argue, Tilda notices the witch's form circling above them, around the three lights, faster and faster, until it is a blur of speed and dark energy. One of the floodlights begins to wobble and threaten to tip forward.

‘For God's sake, put the stone back where it was!' Tilda yells, but nobody takes any notice. She knows she must act, must do something. Swallowing panic, she scrambles back out of the trench and stands beneath the nearest light. She stares up into its beams the best she can, forcing herself to keep her eyes open. She breathes deeply, then faster, imagining she is running, imagining she is trying to send all her strength powering through her body, the heat and force of her own energy feeding her mind. Feeding whatever it is inside her that allows her to influence things in the way she believes she can. Her eyes start to water and sting, her mind fills with the beating of her own heart, pain builds in her head until she fears she may start screaming, or look away and give up.

I must not! I will not!

Still, she does not seem able to do what she needs to do. Still, nothing happens, except that the swirling mass of the witch's ghost grows ever bigger and darker and spins ever faster. Just when she feels sure she will fail, something compels Tilda to take hold of the gold bracelet in her pocket. She grasps it, amazed to find it is not just warm, but actually hot. She holds on to it tightly, willing herself to ignore the pain as it begins to burn her palm.

And then it happens. The light she is staring at explodes, the bulb and glass bursting, sending shards and splinters showering down onto the snow beneath it. Dozens of lethally sharp slivers slice into the ground around her, but not a single piece touches Tilda. Before anyone else has a chance to react, the second light blows in the same way, and then almost immediately the third. There is sudden silence as the generator splutters and fails. The area is plunged into darkness. Twilight fell while the excavation was in progress, and the sudden contrast with the earlier artificial light has left everyone temporarily blinded. Shouts go up, as people scramble for torches, amid cries of warning to watch for pieces of glass and hot metal in the snow. The diggers in the trench have no option but to set the stone back down on the ground. It is not in its original position exactly, but it is back in the grave, covering the main part of the skeleton once more.

As Tilda watches, the pulsating form ceases to grow. Instead it quickly shrinks and pales until it is just a faint, misshapen ghost again, slowly sinking down, down, down toward the grave. The hideous face turns to Tilda as it passes, spitting unintelligible words filled with venom. As the last of it is pulled back beneath the stone, a movement to her left catches Tilda's eye. The gantry holding the second floodlight is teetering.

It's going over!

‘Look out! Dylan!' she shouts, as the hefty metal tower lurches and then begins to fall. Everyone on the ground scatters as they glimpse movement and hear Tilda's warning. Everyone except Dylan. He appears transfixed, staring up at the light as it hurtles through the half-darkness toward him. If he does not leap from its path it will hit him. Unless Tilda can stop it. From where she stands she is too far to reach him, so there is no possibility of her pushing him out of the way. With no real idea of what it is she is doing, she grips the bracelet in her hand, wrenching it from her pocket, even as the gold seems to sear into her skin, and holds it aloft. She focuses on the light as it topples over, keeping her glaze fixed upon it. In the seconds it takes to fall, she forces herself to will it to change direction. She conjures an image of it veering to one side, so that it will fall harmlessly beside Dylan instead of hitting him. She pictures it doing this, pictures it thudding into the snow with him standing, unharmed, next to it.

But none of this happens.

What happens is that the tower stops falling. It comes to a halt inches above Dylan's head and simply stays there, suspended by nothing. Nothing except Tilda's will. Gasping, she staggers forward, takes Dylan's arm, and drags him away. They have not gone more than two paces before the floodlight continues its journey and crashes noisily onto the ground, breaking into pieces and sending fragments of glass and metal bouncing across the snow. Dylan is jolted back to his senses. Tilda still has hold of his arm. He looks at the mangled remains of the metal tower, at the place where he had been standing, and then at her. Neither of them speaks. He pulls her to him, and the two stand there in silence, holding one another, as slowly everyone else returns to the trench to examine the chaos that has just rained down upon them.

 

12

SEREN

After the feast, after Hywel's mistimed toast that drew such unwanted attention to me, I walk through the snow to the western shore of the lake. Heavy clouds have gathered once more, and as I reach the furthermost point from my home the sky can hold its burden no longer. A steady fall begins, undisturbed by so much as a breeze, plump flakes of snow adding to the layer that already smothers the ground. The stiller edges of the water start to be coated in a topping of slush, as the snow decides whether to freeze or to melt. After hours cooped up in the company of so many, with endless noise and doltish behavior, I feel the need to stand somewhere quiet and solitary. The need to look upon the ancient lake and feel its strength. Its magic. I require it to reassure and remind me that the foolish ways of men are but passing moments, shorter than the life of a single snowflake when compared to the existence of the lake. My boots are sheepskin, the wool on the inside keeps my feet warm, the tough leather on the outside offers sturdy protection. I am glad of my wolf skin tonight, and draw it around me as I stand on the shore. With so much cloud there is little moonlight, what there is descending in brief glimpses of clear sky, so that I stare through one level of darkness out over another. From here I can discern the flames of the crannog torches, though most are going out now. What light there is finds a glittering surface in the white snow, and glimmers more flatly upon the lake.

I feel the peace of Llyn Syfaddan enter my soul. All that I am has come from this place, and one day I shall walk into the waters and let them take me, so that in the end I shall be as one with the Afanc. The thought forces me to recall my vision. Did it foretell Brynach's death? I have pondered this question over and over, and I think not. Water in my visions often signifies rebirth, or at the very least, a significant change. I have convinced myself that this is the case. Or, in truth, I continue to try to convince myself. Could it be that I am simply unwilling, unable, to accept the alternative? Can I not allow myself to read properly my own prophecy? Could it be that my heart is too tender where Brynach is concerned, and such feelings as I have for him are clouding my insight? Must I always be a Seer first and a woman second? Of course, I know the answer to this question. I take a step forward, so that I move from the softness of the snow to the grit of the shoreline, cold water lapping at my boots. If I am wrong, if the vision showed me my prince's possible death, then I must warn him. What is shown need not be the outcome of events, not if the prince is furnished with foreknowledge, so that he can act, can prepare, can protect himself. I stoop low and dip my hand into the lake, lifting the water in my cupped hand to take a sip. It is cold enough to make my belly knot, but there is a sweetness to it that can be found nowhere else. As I crouch, my eyes are close to level with the surface of the lake, and I detect the faintest movement farther out. A series of ripples, but not spanning outward as if a stone has been dropped from a height. Rather, these form an arrowhead, giving away the motion of something under the water.

Something slow.

Something heavy.

Something great.

And there is only one thing, one being, of such stature living in Llyn Syfaddan. My heart quickens and my blood warms at the thought that she is near. I dare not move, but remain as I am, waiting, hoping. The lake in front of me seems to flow this way and that now, as if it were a river undecided on its course. I can hear nothing, but I sense her presence. With care, I straighten, standing to better view the lake. A tense stillness descends. Even the restless owls in the woodland behind me cease their hooting and hunting. Small creatures in the undergrowth stop their scurrying and burrowing through the snow to listen, paws raised, noses twitching as they sniff the air. When she arrives, when she breaks the surface and raises her glorious, proud head high, it is the most graceful of actions. Water falls from her noble head, but it does so softly. She blinks slowly, her indigo eyes looking directly at me. She is the only Afanc upon which I have ever laid eyes, but I know in my heart she is the most beautiful that ever was. Her long neck is elegantly curved, down to her broad shoulders just visible above the surface. She gently moves her powerful limbs to keep herself afloat. Though this night I cannot see them, I have done so before, and know them to be immensely strong, ending in broad webbed feet. She is the length of half a dozen horses from the tip of her upturned nose to the end of her sinuous tail. Her hide is not quite skin, not quite scales, but made of an ancient matter that lies between the two. Even though light is scant, she has a sheen to her, so that her whole being glimmers like the wing of a kingfisher, one minute blue, the next green, then black. She is by far and away the most wonderful, the most magnificent thing that I have ever seen or will ever see in this earthbound life.

I stretch out my hands toward her and take three steps closer, into the lake, stopping when the water reaches my waist. The cold chills my very bones, but I do not care, for I am happily enchanted by the water-horse. I can smell her scent now; she smells of pebbles and reeds and bulrushes. She smells of an age before memory. Of centuries of lives lived and lost. Of her own deep, unchanging world. She stretches forward, lowering her head, and I am able to touch her gentle face. What ancient wisdom this fabled creature has! What timeless magic! As my frost-nipped fingers stroke her iridescent cheek, my soul sings. I am blessed indeed to have the trust of such as she.

‘What should I do, my glorious Afanc? Should I speak to the prince of my fears, or is it better I hold such uncertain prophecies to myself? Tell me, mother-of-the-lake, what must I do?'

It may be that she is about to offer me a sign, something that will help me make the right choice, but I will never know, for at this very moment we are disturbed. The Afanc is the first to become aware that someone approaches. I cannot hear, nor see, anyone, but I can feel the horses as they draw near. Their hoofbeats spread through the ground beneath my feet like ripples through the water. The Afanc turns, lowering her head beneath the surface of the lake, and in one swift, silent movement, she is gone, vanished into the depths once more.

I hurry back to the shore. Who would be abroad at such an hour? Other than myself. Surely the inhabitants of the crannog will be settled in their ale-heavy sleep by now. And yet here come two riders, at some speed. As they approach I see they carry swords, and their faces are masked by the metal guards of their helms. Are we under attack? But no, these are not Vikings, nor do the horses show signs of having traveled any distance.