The Silver Witch (12 page)

They are interrupted by a sudden movement by the fire. Thistle scrambles to her feet and lets out a low growl as a man walks into the room. Tilda recognizes him at once as the diver she encountered a few days earlier. He is tall and lean, his unruly black hair more ringlets than curls, and his skin the color of warm honey. Now that she can see him properly, without his wet suit hood or mask, she is struck by how unusual he is. His dark complexion and bright green eyes suggest a mixed ethnicity, as does the glossy blackness of his hair oddly matched with his angular European features. Realizing she is staring at him, and conscious of the irony of this, she experiences a niggling shame about what she did to his boat.

‘Ah,' the professor beams, ‘Dylan, come in, come in.'

‘I will if your visitor promises not to bite me,' he says, nodding at the dog.

Tilda slips out from behind the desk and goes to Thistle, putting a hand on the animal's head. ‘She won't hurt you,' she says. ‘She was just startled. You woke her up.'

Professor Williams laughs. ‘And you know what they say about letting sleeping dogs lie! Tilda, this is my nephew, Dylan.'

‘We've met,' Dylan says with a grin. ‘Though I remember you as…' He pauses, then says, ‘wetter.'

‘How's your boat?' Tilda asks, struggling to meet his gaze. She is annoyed to find she feels self-conscious; aware of being in her unflattering running clothes and mismatched spotty socks, with her hair flattened from her hat. Thistle has stopped growling, but keeps her eyes fixed on the newcomer.

That's two of us he's making nervous. Ridiculous. We should get out more.

‘There's tea in the pot,' says the professor. ‘Tilda has moved in to Ty Gwyn. Marvelous views from up there. My nephew is on a rare visit home, not on my account, it has to be said.'

‘Now Uncle Illtyd will give you a hard-luck story about how he never sees me.'

‘More important things to do than spend time with his aged relative, of course.'

‘I'm a diver. My job takes me abroad a lot.'

‘But on this occasion his work has brought him to my doorstep.'

‘I've been hired by the archeologists at the far end of the lake.'

‘Oh,' Tilda is suddenly interested, ‘I've seen them there. What is it they're looking for?'

The professor laughs, ‘Well, Dylan has been searching for the Afanc since he was a boy.'

‘The what?' she asks.

‘Just Uncle Illtyd's little joke,' Dylan assures her. ‘The diggers are after the usual—you know, bits of buildings, weapons, coins, jewelry…'

‘And bones,' Professor Williams puts in.

‘Bones?' Tilda wants to know more.

The professor hands around cups of tea as he tells her, ‘Every archeologist will assure you they are searching for treasures that reveal secrets about people long dead. We fondly imagine these to be piles of gold or valuable gems, but in fact, nothing tells us more about a people than their bones. Science has made such strides … When I was at Oxford we had to content ourselves with measuring things. Now, tests can be done to pinpoint exact dates when people lived or died, their age, their nationality, what they ate, what diseases and parasites afflicted them … all from the smallest fragment of a smashed skull, or perhaps a few teeth in a broken jawbone. Remarkable, really. Shortbread, anyone?'

At that moment the grandfather clock begins to strike the hour. Tilda tenses, listening.

Three, four, five, six …

The chiming stops. She knows it was after seven when she left the cottage. When the professor comments on how curious it is that the clock has stopped, she cannot think of anything to say that will not give away the consternation she is feeling.

What next? I have to leave. Now.

‘I … I should be going,' she says, coaxing Thistle from the rug.

Dylan looks surprised. ‘Aren't you going to drink your tea?'

‘It's late. I hadn't realized. I have work I should be getting on with. I'm sorry.'

‘Me too,' he says, just as his uncle comes back into the room.

‘Most peculiar. I've had that clock, ooh, twenty years or more, and it's been completely reliable. In these last few weeks however … Oh, are you on your way?'

‘I should be in my studio. I've rather a lot to catch up with, you know, what with the move…'

‘Of course. Here, why don't you borrow these?' He hands her the two books he had selected for her, and then quickly takes another from a high shelf. ‘And this one, I think,' he says, nodding to himself. ‘Yes, I think this might have something of what you are looking for.'

‘Thank you. You've been really helpful.' Tilda hurries to the front door and struggles into her running shoes and fleece as quickly as she can. Thistle, too, seems eager to go, and fidgets as she tries to clip on her pink leash. ‘Stand still, daft dog.'

Dylan has followed them into the hall. ‘I wouldn't want to wear that, either.'

‘It was the only color they had,' she lies.

‘Dog like that wants to run, anyway. I don't expect she really needs to be on a lead, do you, girl?' He reaches out slowly and carefully but Thistle moves away with another quiet but alarming growl.

Tilda experiences the embarrassment of being the parent of an ill-mannered child and can't stop herself explaining. ‘She's been badly treated. I think she's nervous of men. They hurt her.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' he says, but when he speaks he is looking not at Thistle, but at Tilda.

Outside, the day has brightened and instinctively Tilda flinches as the sunshine hits her eyes. As she reaches the garden gate Dylan calls after her. ‘Come to the dig. If you're interested. I'll show you around.'

She pauses, hand on the latch, and manages a polite smile. ‘Thank you,' she says. ‘That would be … lovely.' She fumbles with the gate and hurries on her way.

Lovely? Hardly the word for looking for ancient bones. Get a grip, girl.

By the time they reach the field below the cottage both Tilda and Thistle are puffing small clouds of warm breath into the frosty air. They slow to a walk, and Tilda wonders if the skinny dog hasn't overdone things a little for her first proper run. She considers an idea, biting her bottom lip, and then pulls gently on the lead.

‘Come here, little one. I'm told you don't need a lead. What d'you think about that, eh? Let's have this off you, shall we?' So saying, she undoes the collar and slips it from the dog's neck. Thistle shakes herself briskly and gives a brief wag of her tail.

The two of them continue their journey, and Tilda decides it is rather pleasing to have the willing company of a trusting hound. Just as the thought forms in her mind, she sees Thistle's head shoot up, ears pricked. She follows the direction of her sightline and sees what it is that has her so transfixed. A large, brown hare stands motionless on the path in front of them, not more than a dozen paces away. Tilda has never seen a hare close up before, and is struck by the wild, ancient look of the thing. This is not some timid, fluffy bunny, but a creature of the mountains, something knowing and wise. Its enormous, bright eyes do not flicker as it takes in the odd pair who have happened upon it.

What a wonderful thing. A truly wonderful thing.

Too late, Tilda remembers what manner of dog she has at her side. And that that dog is no longer on the lead. In another heartbeat, Thistle is racing forward, any hint of fatigue vanished, all the animal's instincts telling it to chase, chase, chase!

‘Thistle, no! Stop!' Tilda shouts, but her cries are pointless. The hare turns and bounds away, its powerful hind legs propelling it across the hard ground with astonishing speed. Thistle is a dog possessed of a single thought now, and soon closes the gap between herself and her prey. The hare jinks and twists, leading its pursuer in zigzags up and down the hill. Tilda runs after them, hampered by the heavy books she is carrying, and with little hope of either catching the dog or getting it to listen to her. The hare darts off the path and around a corner, so that in an instant both creatures are out of sight. Limbs aching, muscles burning from the effort, Tilda forces herself to follow as fast as she is able. She rounds the bend, dreading what she might find, half expecting to see her dog savaging the defenseless hare, tearing it limb from limb, its beautiful fur bloodstained and gory. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have conjured up the scene that greets her. The hare has stopped running and sits, apparently unperturbed, as Thistle bounces around it playfully, tail wagging, clearly having no intention of hurting it. Tilda stares at the bizarre spectacle of a lurcher, a dog bred over centuries for hunting hares, rolling on the sparse meadow grass, ears flat, paws outstretched toward its new playmate in an attitude of utter submission and friendliness, while the hare sits inches away, calmly washing its whiskers with its tiny paws. Tilda stands stock-still as the hare slowly lollops toward her. It comes closer and closer, until at last it is only inches in front of her, and Tilda has the strangest sensation that it is somehow
studying
her. Just as she wonders if she could reach out and touch it, the hare leaps in the air, twisting so that it lands facing in the opposite direction, speeds off back down the hill and disappears through the hedge at the bottom of the field. Thistle comes panting to stand next to her mistress.

Tilda regards her pet with amazement. She shakes her head and smiles. ‘You are one very strange dog, you know that? Come on, there must be something left at home we can call breakfast.'

 

7

TILDA

Later the same day there is a dramatic drop in the temperature. After a frustrating session in the studio, where nothing seems to want to go right, Tilda shares the last tin of chicken soup with Thistle, and the two of them retreat to the sitting room. Tilda banks up the fire, wondering how long the log supply will last if she has no central heating to back up the wood fires and stoves in the house. She pulls cushions off the small sofa and hunkers down on the rug as close to the crackling flames as is sensible, with Thistle curled up beside her. She has lit a paraffin storm lantern, which smells more than a little, and gives out a low light that is helpful, but not steady or strong enough to read by. A moment of inspiration drove her to dig through the unpacked box of camping gear to find a headlight. Tilda has put new batteries in it and adjusted the headband to make it as comfortable as she can, and now the thing provides a narrow beam that neatly illuminates a page at a time as she leafs slowly through the books Professor Williams lent her.

The images of Celtic knot-work are quickly becoming familiar to her. There are standard shapes and patterns that seem to have been employed in a variety of ways. Animals, birds and flowers are often incorporated into the designs, twisting and entwining with one another, their heads and bodies stylized and elongated, their eyes always watchful and sharp.

Yes, these. On my pots, these would work. The animals, in particular, I think.

But it is too late in the day, and too dark in the sitting room, to attempt sketching. Instead she puts the book aside and chooses the next. A moment's turning of the pages reveals impenetrably dense text regarding the history of the lake. Tilda feels unequal to the task of reading it. She knows there must be fascinating facts hidden somewhere in the plodding prose, but she is not in the right state of mind to tackle it.

The third book is the one the professor chose for her, almost as an afterthought. Only now has she had the chance to look at it. She reads the title out loud to Thistle.

‘
“Myths and Legends of Llyn Syfaddan.”
Hmm, what d'you reckon, girl? Might answer a few questions?'

Tilda has learned enough to recognize the old Welsh name for Llangors Lake. The book has a hardcover that creaks slightly as she opens it. There are slightly fuzzy black-and-white plates showing maidens with flowing hair, dark-eyed men on horseback, hunting dogs by the pack and one singularly strange beast. Checking the figure reference, Tilda explains to her uncomplaining audience: ‘That's an
Afanc.
Scary-looking thing. Like a cross between a dragon and the Loch Ness Monster. Well, well. It seems our lake has its very own water-horse.' Reading on, she learns that the
Afanc
has several legends surrounding it, some making it out to be a benign, misunderstood creature, others portraying it in a less flattering light. In one version the water-horse, which had the ability to walk upon the shore of the lake, was coaxed from its hiding place by a brave young girl of the village. She sang to it as it laid its head in her lap, and the local men were able to capture it. It was then either removed to another, distant lake where it could no longer devour the villagers' cattle, or slain, depending on which story you chose to believe. Tilda runs her fingers over the largest picture of the beast, which shows it to have overlapping scales, a long, sinuous neck, and enormous eyes. Although at first glance she had thought it frightening, she now decides it was, in fact, a gentle thing, without fearsome teeth or claws, and had probably just wanted to live peacefully in the clean, deep waters of the lake. She catches herself believing the creature to have actually existed, but is not surprised.

Why not? If magic is possible, visions, ghosts … why not fantastic beasts too? What else lives in those ancient waters, I wonder?

With a sigh, she realizes the book has not, in fact, provided answers, but instead it has raised even more questions. And there are only two ways Tilda knows to work through a problem.

Run or work. And I've done a great deal of running lately, and precious little work.

‘Okay, Thistle,' she declares, snapping shut the dusty book. ‘Work it is.'

For the next five days Tilda works in her studio, wearing many layers of thermals and woolens, her hands clumsy in their fingerless mittens, as the countryside around her freezes. She is able, at last, to fall into that near-meditative state that artists yearn for, where each sketch, each worked slab of clay, each finished piece, seems to move closer to the ideal. Closer to the fervently imagined perfection that skitters on the peripheral vision of her mind's eye. Over and over, she sketches the intricate and ancient Celtic patterns. She starts with dogs, and then birds and then hares silently slip their way into her designs. She builds huge, bulbous pots from coils of clay, each one unique and beautiful in its basic, rustic shape. Onto these she builds her knot-work in thin strips, adding, blending, working, until the pattern stands in relief from its base while still seeming to merge with it. To grow from it. Gradually, over days, the studio fills with these generous shapes and their detailed, symbolic decoration.