The Silver Witch (3 page)

‘You've just said it's useless at … hunting. Must cost a lot, feeding a dog like that. I'll take it off your hands.'

‘Oh yeah? How much?'

‘What?'

‘How much are you gonna give us for her? She's from a good line. They cost money, you know, working lurchers.'

‘Even useless ones?'

Both men scowl and begin to walk off. Tilda trots after them and catches up with the tall one holding the lead. She instinctively puts her hand on his arm.

‘Look, I haven't got any money on me. But I'll give her a good home. Save you the cost of the dog food. And the vet's bills.'

The youth looks down at her hand and sees her watch.

‘I'll take that for her,' he says.

‘My watch? Oh, but it's…' She is going to say
broken
but then notices the hands are moving; it is working again. ‘… It was a present from my husband.'

The man shrugs. ‘Do you want the dog or don't you?'

She hesitates for only a moment, thinking of Mat and how pleased he had been when he found the watch for her, and then knowing what he would want her to do. Slipping the watch from her wrist, she hands it over and takes the chain before the man can change his mind. She whistles softly at the dog to encourage it to go with her and is relieved when it limps along beside her quite willingly. She is aware of the men watching her as she struggles to help the dog over a low bit of hedge and back onto the path, and finds she is only breathing steadily again once she hears them stomping off across the field in the opposite direction.

It takes an age to reach the house, as the dog is lame, sore, and undernourished. Tilda's running clothes are unequal to the chilliness of the morning without the warmth exertion would produce, so that by the time they arrive at the cottage both she and her new housemate are shivering. It follows her inside meekly. Only now does she realize she did not ask for the dog's name. There is no tag on its chain collar, which has started to rub, so she takes it off.

‘What am I going to call you, pooch? You are a weedy thing. All skinny and gray and tufty. I know; Thistle! Yes. That'll suit you. Now, what would you like to eat, eh, Thistle? What do lurcher dogs eat, I wonder?'

It feels strange, the sound of her own voice in the house she has only ever been alone in. Strange, but nice. She fetches a saucer of milk and the dog gives her a look that clearly says
I'm not a cat
, but drinks it all the same. Tilda empties a tin of tuna into a cereal bowl. It is wolfed down in seconds. The sight of the dog licking hungrily at the empty dish reminds her that she will have to buy more supplies soon. Without a car, this is not a simple task.

When Tilda had informed her parents of her intention to live at the cottage without Mat it was the first thing her mother had brought up.

‘How can you possibly live in such a remote place if you refuse to drive? Really, Tilda, it's just not sensible. How will you shop?'

‘There's a post office and stores in the village.'

‘You can't live on canned food and chocolate bars.'

Wrong again, Mother.

Thistle stands on her stringy legs, head on one side, watching Tilda quizzically.

‘Okay, maybe you will need proper food. Later on I'll have a look on the Internet to see if there's a supermarket that delivers around here, okay? Later. Now, we need heat.'

Tilda opens the door of the Rayburn and pokes at the smoldering fire inside. She takes a log from the basket and feeds it in. There is a great deal of smoke, but very little warmth. Shutting the stove door, she pulls a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and calls the dog to lie on it. But the cushion is small, and however tightly Thistle tries to curl herself up onto it, her legs still dangle over the edges onto the cold kitchen floor.

‘Now you're making me feel like a bad dog owner. Don't you know how lucky you are? I haven't time to fuss over you. I have work to do. A studio to set up. Orders to fill.' The dog regards her with a woeful expression.

With a sigh Tilda drags the electric fan heater out from the corner of the room and positions it close to the dog's bed. She switches it on, expecting a cheerful light and a gentle puffing of heat. Instead there is a nerve-jarring bang and all the lights go off.

‘Damn!'

In the gloom of the hallway, she squints at the ancient fuse box. It is a tangle of wires and dusty fitments, but she is eventually able to find the master switch. She flicks it down, and light is restored.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Tilda returns to the kitchen.

‘Right,' she tells the dog, ‘I've got to get into the studio. You'll just have to make do with the Rayburn. I'm not risking switching that heater on again.' As she heads for the door she is painfully aware of a pair of beady brown eyes following her.

Will it be lonely? Should I take it with me? Oh, this is ridiculous.

‘I'll be back in a couple of hours,' she calls to Thistle, her hand on the latch of the door. She is just about to go out when there is a second loud bang and the power goes off once more.

‘Damn it! Again?' She turns and strides through the kitchen. Not seeing that Thistle has got up from her cushion she stumbles into the dog, tripping, her knee connecting with the edge of a wooden chair. ‘Stay in your bed! Ouch, for pity's sake.' Cursing further, she sits heavily on the floor, clutching her knee. The dog is back on its cushion, making itself as flat and small as it can. Tilda is filled with remorse at having spoken harshly. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes tight. She knows if she lets herself cry–properly cry—grief will claim her again.

You are a self-pitying fool, Tilda Fordwells. Get up, girl. Get up and get on!

She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands up, allowing herself two deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. Thistle is peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. Immediately, Tilda is swamped by pity for the dog. Slowly she moves close to the scruffy hound, crouching beside it, stroking the animal's head and ears gently.

‘I'm sorry. You poor old thing. And your mouth is still bleeding. Tell you what, I'll put the kettle on the stove, make me a cup of tea and you some warm water so I can bathe your face. Then we'll phone an electrician. The cell phone might not work up here, but at least the landline does. Upside of keeping the old telephones that don't need to be plugged in to the main power supply. What d'you say, sound like a good idea? Might even be a biscuit or two to go with the tea. You could help me with those.'

Thistle replies with a feeble but friendly wagging of her tail, the movement sending up little clouds of dust to swirl and dance in the narrow beam of sunlight that falls through the window.

‘Who needs electric lights anyhow, eh? Not me. And certainly not you,' Tilda decides, noticing how soothing the feel of the dog's fur is beneath her fingers. She sets about her tasks and begins to achieve the sense of calm that comes from gently restoring order; from attending to the small details of life that ease the passage of time. When at last the dog is tended to and settled and the electrician called, she slips out of the house and into her ceramics studio.

SEREN

The sun has gone to sleep and left shadow-making to the torches that burn bright in the still of the evening. From where I sit, at the entrance to my small lakeside house, I have an unbroken view of the crannog. The small island sits upon the water as if held there by magic, floating, the weight of the hall and the other buildings apparently supported by some unknown glamor. In truth, it is a solid thing. It was not magic that brought it into being but hard labor, sweat, and toil. It is not suspended at all, but sits stoutly on layers of rock and wood, hauled into place over many months, constructed to the design of clever, ambitious men.

Many more torches than is customary are lit tonight, the better to show the way to the gathering in the long hall. And the better to show off the finery of those who will attend. How people snatch at the chance to parade in their expensive garments and gaudy jewels. They pretend to hurry to their prince's side, to show their support, to listen to his every word. In truth their loyalty is not as great as their vanity. And is not the crannog itself a display of pride? That man can make an island! Not content to build his hall and smithy and houses on the shore, he must construct his own isle, must sit atop the water, as if he has conquered the elements so that he alone is able to float his impossibly heavy buildings above the eels and fishes. As if his feet are too tender, too royal, to set upon the gritty earth.

The lake itself is quiet tonight. The trifling events of those who dwell within its reach do not trouble it. A wind might stir its surface into jagged waves. A freezing might glaze it with bitter ice. The sun on a summer morn might lift from it a mist. But man's splashings and flailings are fleeting disturbances only. Prince Brynach considers himself ruler of his own land, and that may be so, but he no more rules the water of the lake than the stars in the sky or the thunder in the clouds. No matter how many crannogs he builds.

They are hurrying to the gathering now, eager to take the best seats, close enough to the fire to be illuminated, to be seen, but not so close as to suffer the choking smoke more than they must. They will greet one another warmly, but those smiles will slip to sneers behind turned backs. The prince has his royal home, his floating palace, and it attracts the ambitious like so many moths to a flame. It is his own fault that he is surrounded by men who would as readily fight with him as for him. He is a good prince, with good intentions, but unwilling to see the truth sometimes. He has eyes to melt your heart, peat-dark and flecked with gold, and steady in their gaze, but he cannot see the treachery before him. It falls to me to show him.

I take my time. Let them bluster and settle. I have no interest in observing pleasantries. The night is cooling and I am glad of my wolfskin cloak and headdress. My appearance among the prince's people always causes unease. The sight of me reminds them of things they do not understand. Of things they fear, and yet need. But tonight I must present myself not merely as Seren the Seer, Seren who lives apart. Who lives alone. This night I must stand before my prince and make him hear me. Make them all hear me. I am Seren Arianaidd. Seren who calls the Afanc. Seren the Prophet. Seren the Witch. My pale hair beneath my wolf's mask headdress is braided with bright green reeds from the banks of the lake. Under the fine animal skin I am naked except for my short woolen tunic and my leather armor, the silver at my throat and wrists, and the pictures on my flesh. My feet are bare, though my steps ring to the sound of bangles of bone and shell at my ankles. My blade is at my waist. I have painted my eyes so that their glasslike lightness is particularly striking, and I have studded my brow and cheeks with beetle wings. Wings that will flutter and shine beneath the glow of the fire as I move around it. They will look at me and be afraid. And that fear will make them listen. Before I leave the sanctuary of my little home, I step into the lake, let it gently lap my feet. I need the calmness of the water if I am not to be riled beyond endurance. This is not a moment to let my temper steer me. When my mother was schooling me in the ways of the shaman and the skill of the witch, how often she would chide me for my want of control.

I make the short walk from my own house to the wooden causeway swiftly and silently. Most have crossed the water to the crannog already, so that the solitary guard watches me warily as I pass. He is the only one on the narrow wooden crossing that links the island to the shore to witness my arrival. The sight of me makes him start, makes him stare, then quickly look away again. It is a common reaction to my appearance. At least I have no need to identify myself, and he steps aside wordlessly to let me pass. The smaller buildings are quiet—the smithy, the barn, and the house with its byre—all their occupants having gone into the hall to take their places. The prince's horses are at rest in their stable; the long-horned bull slumbers, head low; tired working dogs are too weary to bark. I wait outside the hall and listen. Hywel Gruffydd, the prince's stalwart captain, is up on his hind legs, barking gruff words of welcome at the gathering, reminding them of the greatness of their ruler, informing them of recent gains in territory or status for the prince, and bidding them salute his wise leadership and bravery. His words bring forth an easy cheer. Hywel falls quiet, and even from this side of the heavy oak door I can picture him setting his broad rump on the seat to his master's right, shifting his weight to one side, as is his habit, to ease the pain in his fattening leg. He is not the warrior he once was, though it would be a foolish man who chose to remind him of the fact. And now people stand, in turn, those who have come with a question, a quarrel to be solved, a dispute over livestock, a broken promise, an accusation of theft, a plea for alms. They pick their words with care when addressing their prince, but the music of their voices is strained, their throats tightened with anger or heartache. If others interrupt to argue or shout down the complainant, they are swiftly silenced by Hywel, who will have them dragged from the hall if they do not conduct themselves as they should.

So Prince Brynach listens. I know he listens, though I still stand without. I close my eyes to see him more clearly, his strong body finely robed, his crown upon his head, his eyes thoughtful, his expression purposefully blank. He will guard his own thoughts, not letting them show on his handsome face. He is not afraid to let others see his passions or his cares, but he knows he must appear more than a mere man to his people. He is their prince, their protector, their provider, their wise man, their shelter and their sword. He must not reveal himself to be as they are.

Yet I see the truth. See the man who is flesh and blood, soul and heart. See the truth he veils from others.