The Silver Witch (28 page)

The bracelet still sits on the table beside her. She has not dared put it on again, but she is frequently drawn to it, wanting to touch it, to hold it. Dylan had offered to take it to his uncle to see if he could shed any further light on its possible origins, but Tilda would not hear of it being taken anywhere. She wishes sleep would give her some respite from the turmoil in her head. Different concerns, each one perplexing enough to keep her awake, chase one another round and round in her mind. Dylan. Being with Dylan. Letting go of Mat. The ghost from the grave. The mysterious properties of the bracelet and the way it affects her. And the firing. She decides that, for now, she will concentrate only on the firing. Tomorrow she will open the kiln and see if weeks of work, if her hopes of transforming her ideas into something wonderful, have been successful or come to nothing.

One step at a time. Just like running. First step, the firing. And beyond that, right now, I am too tired to think.

But still, sleep will not come. As the dark hours crawl by Tilda becomes increasingly restless. Increasingly disturbed. She fidgets and moves about so much that Thistle eventually gets off the sofa and curls up on the hearth rug instead. With a sigh of exasperation, Tilda throws back the duvet, pulls on more clothes and lights a candle. She sits on the arm of the sofa, staring at the bracelet, watching the dancing light of the candle flame as it plays upon the warm gold. The flickering illumination appears to animate the drawings, so that the hares and the hound seem to first twitch, and then, gradually, the harder she stares, to start to run. She cannot resist reaching out to touch the bracelet. As her cold fingers connect with the hard metal she experiences something close to an electric shock charging up her arm, causing her to gasp aloud. Thistle wakes up, jumping silently from the rug to come and stand next to her mistress.

‘What do you reckon, girl?' Tilda asks her, still keeping her hand on the bracelet, realizing that she
wants
to touch it. That she
wants
to feel connected to the strange magic it holds.

But is it in this beautiful, ancient thing, or is it in me? Does it affect me, or is it the other way around? How can I know?

It occurs to her that neither Dylan nor the professor felt anything unusual when they held the bracelet. She picks it up, and instantly becomes aware of the distant ringing sound she heard before. Her heart pounds running-hard as she recalls how utterly out of control she felt the last time she wore the heavy gold loop. At the same time she vividly remembers the pure energy that had surged through her body. It had been terrifying, but also intoxicating.

Looks like you've got me hooked.

Without allowing herself time for second thoughts, Tilda stands up, pulls off her fleece and slips the bracelet over her hand and onto her arm. This time she does not push it up beyond her elbow, but allows it to rest loosely around her wrist. Again she feels the warmth of the thing; an unnatural, fierce heat. She resists the urge to snatch it off, quells the panic that is rising from the pit of her stomach.

Steady now. No running away. Feet firmly planted. If it's me that makes the thing work, then I should be able to control it. Stands to reason.

She closes her eyes. Thistle moves even closer, so that she can feel the dog's tense body pressing against her. She drops her hand to Thistle's head.

‘You and me together, then,' she whispers, her own voice sounding oddly echoey and unfamiliar, as if coming from a long way off. She opens her eyes again. Although it is still nighttime, and the room is lit only by the single candle, she is surrounded by a pale glow. It does not come from the bracelet, she realizes, but from herself. It grows stronger, until the whole room is soon brightly lit. So brightly that it makes her squint. Alarmed, she wonders if it will become too harsh for her unprotected eyes to cope with, but she senses a steadying in the pulsating aura.

It's okay. It's okay.

As her vision adjusts to the glare she can make out shapes moving on the edge of her sightline. Things blur and jump fractionally beyond the reach of her imperfect eyesight. She turns her head this way and that, trying to focus, to catch one of the phantom shapes more clearly. Thistle's ears prick up and she, too, turns to look.

‘You see them too?'

Remembering something about magic-eye pictures requiring the viewer to half close their eyes, Tilda tries this technique, but still the objects are blurred and malformed. She blinks and then, instinctively, shuts her eyes once more.

‘Oh!' She cannot help exclaiming aloud, for with her lids tightly closed she is able to see the apparitions clearly. They are no longer fleeting glimpses of something, but clearly defined, and brilliantly colored. There are two hares, their eyes bright and fur dense and luxuriant. Birds swoop and soar—she counts two owls and a hawk before becoming distracted by a white horse. It gallops across the hectic scene, riderless, mane flowing, silent hooves pounding the insubstantial ground. She tries to follow it, turning, but senses it is passing beyond her reach. She cannot stop herself opening her eyes, at which point the horse fades to a mere shadow. She shuts her eyes again quickly but the horse has vanished.

Damn! I should have known.

She is entirely lost in the beauty and wonder of what she is seeing, as the hares and the birds continue to dance and fly. Only gradually does she become aware of the ringing noise again, growing steadily stronger. And as it does so it alters, shifting in both pitch and tone. Soon it is no longer bell-like but an eerie wail, distant and distorted by a flat echo.

Like the singing of a mermaid! Or whale song!

The volume of the sound increases, and as it does so the vision changes. Gone is the light. The woodland creatures disappear, to be replaced by deepening darkness and a sense of plummeting that makes Tilda feel both dizzy and a little sick. She forces herself to stay with whatever is happening, to follow where she is being taken. The bracelet on her arm is getting hotter again. The strange sound is so loud now she instinctively puts her hands over her ears.

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.