The Silver Witch (25 page)

She is hugely relieved to be home again. As they approach the cottage she can hear Thistle howling, and the second she opens the door the dog bounds out, greeting her with such exuberance she is nearly knocked off her feet.

‘Okay, girl,' she says, kneeling to hug her tightly. ‘It's okay,' she repeats.

Dylan shuts the kitchen door behind him and leans on the Rayburn. He pushes his mop of hair back from his face. ‘Right,' he says, the tension showing in his voice. ‘I really need to know what just happened.' When Tilda says nothing, he tries again. ‘Look, maybe I'm just shaky because I narrowly missed having my head broken open, but I'm having trouble making sense of things. What I do know is, I'm in one piece, nothing smashed or crushed, no bones snapped, standing here in your kitchen pretty hale and hearty, and the fact that I am is down to you, Tilda. It's because of something you did.'

She gets up, leaving the dog, and busies herself with finding small logs from the basket.

‘Tilda?'

‘I don't know! You think I can explain it? Any of it?'

‘Any of what? This has something to do with what you saw in the Landrover, doesn't it? Did you see the same thing again, down there at the dig? What made you jump into the trench like that?'

‘This is going to sound completely crazy.' She shakes her head, pulling open the fire door and jamming wood inside. Smoke billows into the room.

‘I'm prepared for crazy,' Dylan assures her. ‘I just felt crazy whistle past my ear. I just saw crazy stop a heavy object in midair.'

‘What makes you think I have the answers?'

‘Okay, stop. Just stop.' Gently, he shuts the stove door, takes Tilda's hands in his and makes her stand and face him. ‘Small steps. First, what did you see?'

‘Lots of things. Moving about. Swirling. There was so much happening, so much that was so powerful and strange. Maddest thing is, it wasn't scary, not that, but then … I saw … someone. Someone … bad.'

‘The same someone you saw before? In the back of Linny?'

Tilda nods.

‘You think they came out of the grave?'

‘I think she was trying to. I think she would have if they hadn't dropped the stone back in place.' She meets his gaze now. ‘I think she will. When Lucas opens that grave again she'll come out. And I won't be able to stop her. And she's dangerous, Dylan. Those lights didn't fall on their own. We both know that. There was no wind, no one knocked them over. It was … whoever,
whatever
came out of that hole in the ground.'

‘But you…' he squeezes her hands. ‘You did something … amazing. How…?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Have you ever done anything like that before?'

‘Of course not!' she says, more sharply than she meant to.

‘Oh? So are we not, even now, going to talk about a boat motor that wouldn't and then would start, or a clock that keeps stopping, or power supplies that blow?'

‘That was … is … different.' She pauses, then explains. ‘I can control that sort of thing now. Most of the time. If I put my mind to it. Or rather, if I let my mind … I dunno. It's not something I can put into words.'

‘Have you always been able to do that stuff?'

‘Only since I came here.'

‘You think there's something about this place, something weird?'

‘Not this place, but
me
in this place. I don't mean the cottage, but, well, around here. And that terrible ghost, whatever it is, the way it seems to seek me out … But mostly, it's something about being near the lake that has … changed me. No, wait, it's not that.' A moment of clarity makes her smile, despite her rattled state. ‘I'm not different now I'm here, I'm more me. More my real self. More how I should be.' She searches his face for understanding but sees only bewilderment.

And who can blame him?

She rubs her temples. ‘Look, I'm sorry, you don't have to stay . . '

‘Do you want me to go?'

‘No. It's just, well, I want to load the kiln. I want to fire the pots tonight.'

‘Now?'

‘I know this'll sound ridiculous; I don't fully get it myself yet. I don't have it all worked out, I only know that the bracelet helped me today. Down by the lake, I couldn't have done whatever it was I did without the bracelet. And the drawings on it match the drawings on my pots. It's the connection that makes everything work … makes me able to do … things.' She sighs heavily. ‘Trust me, I'm finding this as difficult to grasp as you are,' she tells him. ‘If I try to figure it out any more I shall lose what sanity I have left. Right now I need to
do
something. Something I believe might help protect us from that …
thing.
And this is what I know how to do, okay?'

‘Then let me stay. Let me help.'

‘You sure you want to be near me? Seems stuff … happens around me.'

‘Or perhaps the only place that's safe is with you, have you looked at it that way? I mean, you saved me tonight, no question.'

‘But I'm the one who saw the … ghost, apparition,
thing
that came out of that grave. I'm the one it keeps leaping at, keeps trying to scare the life out of.'

‘Safety in numbers then, better stick together. Yeah?'

She hesitates, then picks up the basket of kindling and thrusts it into his arms. ‘Have it your way. You can set the fire in the kiln while I get the pots loaded.'

The moment she steps back into the studio Tilda finds her mood shifts, as she knew it would. To engage in her creative endeavor is to lose herself in that act of creation, even when attending to the seemingly mundane process of preparing for a firing. As she carefully takes the wrapping off her pots and reveals them in their raw, unfinished state, she feels once again that powerful connection. A connection to the result of her own artistic effort, but also, this time, a connection to the ancient patterns and symbols she has worked into her pieces. She takes a minute to gaze at the bounding hares and the chasing hound. To let her eyes travel along the lithe, supple limbs, feeling their easy movement, imagining the strength of the muscles propelling the animals forward across frozen ground, immersing herself in the idea of their running free and wild, so that soon she is convinced she can hear the dual rhythms of their heartbeats, the hares' fluttering and fast, the hound's slower, but every bit as urgent and vital.

It is past midnight by the time Tilda and Dylan are able to step back and look at the smoldering kiln, watching as reassuring amounts of smoke pour steadily forth from its short chimney. The construction looks home built, but nonetheless robust, and the mortar appears to be set firm in the gaps between the bricks. The snow around it has melted, so that it sits, stout and russet, standing out against the stark whiteness its glow illuminates close up, fading into the darkness a few strides on. It took them two hours to carefully load the shelves with Tilda's pieces, and another to get the fire properly going so that they could then seal up the door.

‘You know, I think it might actually work,' says Dylan.

Tilda nods emphatically. ‘It will work,' she says. ‘It has to.'

At last, with the fire beneath the kiln packed with as much wood as will fit into it, Dylan is able to convince Tilda it does not need to be watched. They decide to go inside, get something to eat and come out and check and restoke the fire at regular intervals through the night.

The cottage has warmed up in the hours they have been busy. The Rayburn fills the kitchen with a slightly smoky but welcome heat, so that the freezing temperature outside is kept at bay. In the sitting room, Tilda takes the bracelet from her pocket and puts it carefully on the small table by the window before laying a fire in the hearth and putting a match to it. Dylan fetches what food he can find from the kitchen.

‘Here we are,' he says, setting down a tray on the coffee table. ‘Bread, passed its best, but still brown rather than blue; cheese, a tub of coleslaw, two packets of crisps, some chocolate biscuits and'—he waves a bottle triumphantly—‘the remains of the brandy.'

‘I'm not sure I can cope with booze,' says Tilda, settling herself next to Thistle on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire.

‘Yes you can.' Dylan gets glasses, then sits as close as Thistle will tolerate. ‘It is a known fact that a little alcohol is good for shock and exhaustion.'

‘That is rubbish.'

‘Really? Can all those Saint Bernard dogs with their little barrels be wrong?'

Despite herself Tilda smiles. The events of the day have left her drained, and she is glad not to be alone.

No, more than that; I'm glad Dylan is here.

This realization is comforting and unnerving at the same time. She takes a proffered glass from him and sips it, leaning back against the base of the armchair and gazing into the dancing flames in the hearth.

‘We will need to check the kiln in a few hours,' she tells him. ‘We have to keep as even a temperature as possible.'

‘For how long?'

‘Well, ideally, twelve hours.'

‘Okay, we can measure that by daylight, given that we can't reliably keep a clock or watch working around you.'

‘Thanks for reminding me.'

Dylan takes a swig of brandy. ‘No problem. We'll go by the position of the sun. We must have set the thing going near eleven. Daybreak is about seven-thirty this time of year. As long as there's not too much cloud we should be able to tell when the sun is directly overhead. What will we do then?'

‘Rake out the fire and let the temperature drop slowly. We should be able to open the kiln about noon the following day.'

‘Wow, that's a long time to wait. How can you resist having a peek?'

‘Easily, seeing as to do so would wreck the firing. If the temperature inside the kiln drops too quickly the pots could crack or shatter, never mind what it would do to the glazes.'

They sit in peaceful silence for a while, sharing the simple food, gradually letting the alcohol and the warmth of the fire take the tension from them. At last, Tilda can feel her feet again properly and her shoulders start to ache less as she relaxes them. Her eyes are gritty from tiredness, the drying effects of the cold weather and the irritation of the wood smoke. She finds herself rubbing them.

‘Why don't you take them out?' Dylan asks.

‘Sorry, what?'

‘Your lenses. If your eyes are sore, you should take out your lenses.' He shrugs. ‘You really don't need them anymore, do you?'

She opens her mouth to protest, to explain, to make the case for the covering up of her strangeness, but thinks better of it. Instead, she does as he suggests. The relief is instant and she stares at the shiny little discs of plastic in her palm, hesitating only a moment before flinging them into the fire. They hiss and flare, making Thistle start.

‘No more hiding,' she says.

‘I'll drink to that,' says Dylan, clinking his glass against hers. ‘No more hiding!'

‘It … it's just the way I've been for a long time. The way I deal with … this.' She flaps a hand in a gesture that encompasses herself, head to toe.

‘If other people have a problem … well, let them handle it. You're you. You're…'

‘Please don't say special.'

‘How about challenging?'

‘Sorry.'

‘Don't be.'

‘It's just that, well, I wouldn't expect you to understand. What it's like … to be looked at like you're something … weird. Like you don't fit.'

He raises his eyebrows at her and gives a pointed shake of his shaggy curls, making his hair fall into his green eyes, turning slightly to profile so that the slender straightness of his nose is unmissable, grinning broadly, his teeth startling against his dusky skin in the low light. ‘Yeah, right,' he agrees with a sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘I have no idea what that might be like.'

Tilda blushes. ‘God, how crass of me. Sorry. No, I'm really sorry.'

‘Like I said, don't be. Let's just say we both know what it means to be outsiders.'

‘Professor Williams told me you were born in Barbados. Is that where your mother comes from?'

‘My father was a diver—I have him to thank for what I do—he met her when he was working on a wreck in the Caribbean. They got married over there then tried to live here, but she couldn't take to it. Dad wanted me to have a British education. God knows why! So, they moved back home, and when I was eleven I came to live term time with Uncle Illtyd.'

‘You don't look much like your uncle.'

‘That's because he's my uncle by marriage. My father was Greta's brother, not his.'

‘Oh, I see. I just assumed … And do you call Barbados home?'

‘I do, or at least I did. My dad was killed in a diving accident when I was twenty-two. Mom wanted me to give it up but, well … when you find the thing you were meant to do…' He drains his glass. ‘I come back here as often as I can. It's been hard for Uncle Illtyd since Auntie Greta passed on. Fact is, I don't know that I feel at home anywhere except under the water.'

Tilda gives a gasp, shaking her head slowly. ‘Well, that is somewhere we definitely differ. Nothing would induce me to go diving. Or swimming. Or even get in a boat if I can avoid it.'

‘Landlubber.'

‘Water baby.'

‘Maybe I can help you with that.'

‘Not a chance.'

‘Have you ever seen the Caribbean? It's not like the sea here. It's turquoise, not gray. And
warm
!'

‘Me in that sort of sun? Do you know how much sunblock I have to wear even in this damp, cloudy country?' She picks up the poker and chivvies the fire, encouraging more flames.

‘Which is why you run at dawn,' he says, looking at her as if another piece of the mystery that is Tilda has just fallen into place.