The Silver Witch (11 page)

Happy? For heaven's sake, yes. Happy. Here. Like this.

She finds she is not fazed by living without electricity, though she knows that when her parents arrive for their promised visit they will be appalled, and that she will have to do something about a nonelectric kiln. The bizarre nature of what is happening to her unsettles her less than she might have expected it to. What does disturb her, however, the thing that does still cause her to jump at sudden noises, or make her heartbeat race when something on the periphery of her vision snags her attention, are the inexplicable things that she sees. As she lies beneath her warm bedding, Thistle snuggled close, the wind wailing around the chimney pots of the cottage, she forces herself to list those things. To name them. To face them.

The waking nightmares of Mat's death.

She forms the thought calmly and acknowledges that the flashbacks to this terrible moment, though more vivid when she first moved to her new home, have now lessened. In fact, she cannot recall the last time she experienced one.

The people in the boat.

They had seemed so real at the time. Even now, though her recollection of the two men rowing with their backs to her is faint, she can clearly see the striking woman who looked straight at her. Who must have seen her.

But who was she? She looked young, and yet ancient at the same time. Was she a ghost then? Is the lake haunted?

The word brings with it the memory of the horrendous face that so shockingly filled her vision more recently. A face so different from the serene and beautiful features of the first. So close, so terrible, so raging. If ever Tilda harbored an idea of what a terrifying ghost might look like, that was it. She turns her head in the dark, instinctively trying to turn away from the image she has brought to mind, knowing that closing her eyes will make no difference. Instead she looks down at the sleeping dog by her side, letting her hand rest on its grizzled fur.

Do you see them, too, girl? Do you see the ghosts? Or is it just me?

She makes herself apply logic to the puzzle as best she can. The lake has been inhabited for centuries. What better place to be sprinkled with wandering souls? She has always been a little sensitive to eerie atmospheres in certain houses or places, and as a teenager was given to being easily spooked, but she never thought of herself as someone who actually saw ghosts. Since she moved to this house that sensitivity has significantly heightened, so that now she encounters the inexplicable. Here things are crucially different. True, the year spent at her parent's house recovering from losing Mat had been filled with the singular visions of that fateful day, and she had felt herself at times unhinged by sadness. But she had not adversely affected the electricity supply whilst staying in Somerset. No machinery had failed to work in her presence. And she had not once seen apparitions. Had never encountered such apparently real people in her waking moments, all the time knowing that they were
not
real. No, the plain fact was, everything changed when she moved to Ty Gwyn. Everything inexplicable began when she came to live by the lake. So the ghosts, if ghosts they are, must somehow have their origins here too.

For even ghosts must surely have their beginnings in something real.

Outside, a doughty blackbird announces the start of a new day. Tilda sits up, fired with a determination to look for reason. For sense. For explanations. She believes the answers to the questions she has not yet properly formed lie with the lake, its history and its people. And luck, or something like it, has thrown in her path the perfect person to help her discover its past.

‘Come on,' she nudges Thistle. ‘That feeble glimmer in the sky out there is what passes for sunrise in these parts. Best time of day for a run, so if you're coming with me, shake a leg.'

Outside the wind has vanished with the night, and been quickly replaced by a light frost. Tilda pulls on her warmer running fleece and a thermal scarf to keep the icy air off her throat. She clips the pink collar and lead onto Thistle and they set off at a gentle pace. The dog looks sound and eager, and the pair are soon covering the hoary ground with ease. The wintry landscape begins to sparkle as the sun rises, so that the lake and its surrounding fields are rendered postcard pretty. Tilda takes the shortest route, and watches her new running companion closely for any signs of lameness or fatigue. She is impressed at the way the dog is able to lope along beside her, not once getting in her way or pulling on the lead. As they near the little wooden bird blind, she sees a figure emerging from it and recognizes Professor Williams at once. She waves to him, slowing to a halt, and waits on the path. Despite his years, the professor moves with strong strides, waving back, his binoculars around his neck, walking stick digging firmly into the ground with each confident step.

‘Good morning,' Tilda calls to him. ‘You're up early.'

‘Ah, dawn in winter is an excellent time for bird-watching,' he tells her. ‘The migratory water fowl have either departed or arrived, and all have settled into their new habitats. Even so, the shy newcomers like to be up early to feed so as to avoid their more boisterous competitors.' He indicates the dog. ‘I see you have a new friend.'

‘This is Thistle. She's … been unwell. This is her first time out for a while.'

Professor Williams touches the brim of his tweed hat. ‘I'm delighted to make your acquaintance,' he says to the dog, who wags her tail politely by way of reply.

‘I'm glad I found you,' Tilda says, seizing the moment. ‘I … I want to ask you more about the lake. About its history. I was wondering … if you could spare the time…'

‘My dear girl, nothing would make me happier. May I suggest tea? I have a fire laid in the hearth at home. Your courser will look very fine in front of it.'

‘My what?' Tilda asks, falling into step beside him.

‘Your lurcher. She is a hunting dog, is she not? A hare courser?'

‘Oh, well, she was supposed to be. She wasn't any good at it, apparently.'

‘Probably just as well. There are few enough hares left as it is. In any case, she has the look.'

‘She does seem to like lounging about in front of fires like something out of an old oil painting. You know the type, expensive rugs, stag's head on the wall, hounds sprawled in the warmest place.'

‘On such a chilly day, and after brisk exercise? I cannot fault her thinking.'

The reassuringly sensible company the professor offers has such a restorative effect on Tilda that she all but forgets about the grandfather clock until she is standing next to it in the hallway of the Old School House. She sees that it is working again, and hurries on into the sitting room in the hope that she can escape causing the thing to break down. Professor Williams strikes a long match and sets it to the neatly twisted paper in the grate, and soon the sticks and coals have caught. He leaves Tilda examining the old map that appears to have a permanent home on his desk, and goes to make tea. Thistle stretches out on the hearth rug with a contented sigh. Tilda studies the details offered by the faded, beautifully drawn representation of the lake and its surroundings. The cartographer's date stamp says 1908, which explains the absence of many of the buildings she is familiar with, particularly on the northern, busy side of the lake, but for the most part things are unchanged. She finds St. Cynog's church again straightaway, with the Old School House next to it, and the Vicarage a little ways off, all set safely back from the shoreline. The crannog is marked, but only as an uninhabited island. Farther back, on the farside, various constructions in the village of Llangors itself stand out—another church, two inns, a lowland farm and a scattering of houses. Tilda studies the map closely without knowing what it is she is hoping to find or expecting to see.

A normal map of a normal place. A bit too recent for ‘Here be dragons.'

The professor returns quickly with the tea, clearly eager to discuss his favorite subject. ‘Was there any particular period of history you were interested in?' he asks, setting the tray down on the cluttered coffee table. ‘That map is finely drawn by a cartographer of some renown, but I have earlier renditions. Or perhaps a book would better suit your needs?' He picks up his wire-framed reading glasses from the mantelpiece and begins to scan the nearest bookshelf. ‘I have many excellent volumes that might be of use … let me see … there's Thomas Jones's
The Lake
. An unimaginative title, I grant you, but the text is reliable. Of course, if you were looking for an emphasis on the art of the area … for your own work perhaps…?'

Tilda gives a rueful shrug. ‘To be honest, I'm not sure where to start. I.… I think I'd like to get an idea of who lived here long ago.'

‘How long, precisely?'

She tries to recall the people in the boat, to bring to mind what they were wearing, what tools or weapons they were carrying, but the recollection is unhelpfully hazy at this moment. All she can clearly see in her mind's eye is the young woman with the animal skin hood or headdress, the leather straps on her legs. Her hair covered, more leather twists and braids … and tattoos.

Yes, she had ink!

‘Did any of the people who settled here use tattoos, do you know?'

‘Well, I don't think I've ever been asked that before!' He gives a low laugh. ‘I daresay there are one or two youngsters sporting such things even now, but…'

‘These … the ones I'm interested in … they weren't colored. Just black. Shapes, rather than objects, I think. Twisted together. Like tangled branches or vines, I suppose.'

‘Ah, that sounds very much like Celtic knot work. In which case'—he squeezes behind the sofa in order to get to another shelf—‘you could do worse than take a look at Bartlett's
Celtic Britain.
He's a little wordy'—he removes a chunky book and blows off the nonexistent dust—‘but knowledgeable. And there are illustrations aplenty.' He takes the book to her. ‘Good references for an artist like yourself, I should imagine.'

‘Thank you,' says Tilda, flicking through the pages, taking in glimpses of dozens of images. ‘Yes, these are just right. Exactly right.' She browses further for a moment, and then looks at the professor, hesitating before going on. ‘The people who would have worn designs like these, when would they have lived here?'

‘Oh, that's difficult to answer with certainty. Celtic artwork such as this was used over centuries, you see. I'd need a little more information…'

‘They had a boat, a small one, but big enough for three people.'

‘I'm sorry, who had a boat?'

Tilda realizes she has given just enough information to be cryptic. She wants to say more, to explain, but how can she? How can she tell this sensible person that she is chasing the identity of some ghosts?

‘I mean,' she tries, ‘I imagine they would have a boat.' This still sounds lame, so she adds, ‘I saw a picture once, of a woman, and two men, in a boat. There was a Celtic feel about it. The woman was … striking. Like a warrior, or someone powerful, anyway, but not dressed in finery. More … earthy, somehow. She had tattoos.'

The professor waits for more.

Tilda shrugs. ‘I thought I could use patterns like that in my work. I just wanted to get the context right.' She turns back to the map. ‘There would have been other buildings here centuries before this, wouldn't there? Different ones, of course.'

‘Well, if you're talking about the Celtic people, yes. Nothing that remains now. That's the trouble with huts built of sticks or wattle, they don't leave much for we historians to work with.' He comes to stand next to her. ‘We know now that there were people living around the lake before the Romans came here, and long after they left, naturally. It's a good place for a settlement. There were monks and villagers here, and even royalty, such was the appeal of the place. I think I mentioned Prince Brynach to you on your previous visit. He went to all the trouble of building the crannog here precisely because he recognized what a splendid place to live the lake provided.'

‘There are just a few trees left on the island now. Was there really a palace there once?'

‘Not one you and I might recognize as such, but yes. It was a royal dwelling, built to impress. It was known as the long hall, or sometimes the great hall—a simple construction, timber framed, with wattle and daub. We are not entirely sure what materials were used for the roof, most likely some sort of reed thatch from the lake. The large space inside could accommodate gatherings and meetings as well as providing a relatively warm and comfortable home for the prince.'

‘It must have been cold, surely? On the water like that. When it was misty or frozen, wasn't it damp and horrible?'

‘There is evidence they used a large fire in the center, and later another at the far end, though this was before the idea of fireplaces set into the walls with proper chimneys. They would have had to dress against the cold.' He smiles, ‘Don't forget how much heat people themselves generate, all in one space together. And there would have been more people living around the lake. They could have retreated to the crannog for safety if the settlement came under attack.'

‘And did it?'

‘Oh, quite frequently. The centuries we used to call the Dark Ages were dangerous times in which to live. Vikings were claiming more and more territory, and warring princes and kings across Britain were constantly doing battle with one another.'

Tilda reaches forward and touches the map where the small area of green upon the lake signifies the crannog. ‘Strange. To even think about living on the lake like that. Weren't they worried the thing might sink? It had to support houses, all those people, horses…'

‘Evidently any such fears would have been unfounded. The island still stands a thousand years after it ceased being inhabited. No, the greatest danger to the people of the lake came not from their surroundings, but from man's inability to live in peace with his neighbors. An unchanging fact, sadly.'