The Silver Witch (36 page)

‘As I mentioned on the telephone, we seldom have visitors so close to Christmas Day. I only open up because, you know, I have things to do, and if I'm here we may as well be available to the public. Now, if I can just ask for £3.50 for your admission ticket…?'

‘Of course.' She fumbles for the money with cold fingers. ‘It's good of you to give me access to the archive. I really do appreciate it.'

‘We are here to assist in any way we can, and my goodness, if we can't help a local artist draw inspiration from our heritage then we wouldn't be doing our job at all well, would we? You say your particular area of interest is Llangors Lake?'

‘That's right, and the crannog. I'm really keen to find out about the people who lived there right at the end. Just before it was attacked by the army from Mercia.'

‘Ah, Aethelflaed struck a cruel blow. It was never inhabited again after that, you know?'

‘I understand the buildings were destroyed. Everything was burned, wasn't it?'

‘They could have been rebuilt. And the crannog itself remained intact. As I'm sure you will have seen. No, I think it was the thought of that terrible day. So many slaughtered. There simply wasn't the desire to live there anymore. Now, I'll just drop the latch on the door for five minutes while I take you downstairs.' He picks up a large ring of keys and a clipboard with papers and pen attached. ‘Follow me, please.'

He leads the way briskly through the main exhibition area of the museum. Tilda has to almost trot to keep up. They pass back through history with each exhibit, the Victorian schoolroom, the agricultural implements, the historical mountaineering, the shepherds and the drovers, all a blur of telescoped time as they descend to the basement.

‘Ordinarily,' Mr Reynolds explains, ‘the artifacts and objects from our early medieval lake exhibit are kept in the blue room, on the second floor, but that is currently being refurbished. We have brought everything down here for safekeeping for the time being. And we're taking the opportunity to give some items a bit of a once-over.' He comes to a halt and gestures at a dowdy-looking mannequin dressed in a rough woolen kirtle and cape. ‘Poor old Mair could do with a bit of TLC. I don't think the real inhabitants of the crannog would have been as troubled by the moth as we are!'

‘No?'

He shakes his head. ‘Much too cold, and their homes far too draughty and damp. Well, here we are.' He throws numerous switches and now Tilda can see large boards showing artists' impressions of how the dwellings might have looked on the crannog in the tenth century. There are three other models, all similarly dressed to Mair, sitting or standing in disconcertingly lifelike poses, as if they are patiently waiting to be spruced up and put back on display. There are boxed up, labeled parts of the collection stacked at the end of the room, and several small display cabinets containing fragments of pottery or jewelry or weapons.

‘These might be of special interest to you, I believe,' the curator tells her, removing a pile of leaflets from the glass lid of one of the displays. ‘Some rather fine examples of Celtic knot-work here. And the fabulous remnant of gold-threaded cloth that was found on the crannog itself. Quite remarkable.'

Tilda is doing her best to listen, and to appear attentive, but in truth she cannot take her eyes off the main exhibit, which currently stands along the right-hand wall of the basement room.

‘Ah, I see you like our canoe.' There is unmistakable pride in Mr. Reynolds' voice. ‘So marvelously preserved. Hardened and brought to such a shine by its centuries in the water.'

‘It's incredible. Is it really over a thousand years old?'

‘Carbon dating says so, and science is rarely wrong in these matters. I think we can safely say that Mair here might have gone fishing on the lake in something very similar.' He glances at his watch before holding the clipboard out in front of Tilda. ‘If you wouldn't mind just signing this. We try to keep paperwork to a minimum, but still we need forms and signatures, no getting around it. Here, and here, thank you. Just to say you are who you are, and at the address you gave me over the phone. Then if the canoe goes missing we'll know where to come, won't we?' He laughs merrily at his own joke and then hastens away, eager to unlock the door again in case another visitor should appear. ‘Come up when you're ready,' he calls over his shoulder, closing the heavy basement fire-door behind him.

Once he has gone, Tilda slips off her duffle coat, draping it over a nearby chair, and steps closer to the slender dugout boat. Its centuries in the water have darkened the wood to a rich, treacly brown, with what she sees more as a gleam than a shine. The grain of the wood is still detectable, the narrow-spaced lines forming flowing patterns along the length of the canoe. She knows at once that this is identical to the boat she saw on the lake. The boat in which she first saw Seren. It is about ten feet long and just wide enough to sit in. The information note beside it says it could carry three people, and that it would have sat very low in the water. Already she can hear the now-familiar distant ringing noise. She has the torc in her pocket, but does not dare take it out for fear of damaging any of the exhibits. Tentatively, she reaches out and lays her fingertips on the smooth edge of the boat. It feels warm, and hard as stone. There is a vibration running through it, as if someone has struck a tuning fork. Even this feels somehow distant, not in space, but in time, as if the thrumming of the wood is an echo of ancient days when the canoe was paddled across the lake. She can almost hear the sound of the silky water lapping and rippling as the boat cut through it. She begins to feel light-headed and quickly steps back, turning away from the dugout.

Stay focused, girl. You're here for a reason.

Tempting as it is to spend her allotted time connecting with the wonderful relics and finds in the archive, she has only a few short hours, and a glance at the rows of books and files on the shelves tells her she has her work cut out for her. She begins scanning the titles, searching for data specific to the sacking of the crannog, and the prisoners being taken by Queen Aethelflaed's men.

Who survived? Did Seren? Was there a child? And if there was, did he or she make it off the crannog, or did they perish too?

Tilda already knows from her conversations with the professor that the prince for whom the royal dwelling on the crannog was built is thought to have fallen in the battle. There is no record of him living beyond that date. What seems certain is that his wife, the princess, was among the prisoners.

But who else? Who else?

She pulls a box file of dusty documents from the shelf declaring themselves to be pertinent to the lake and baring the dates
900–920 AD
. It seems as good a place to start as any. She finds a chair and pulls it up to one of the sturdier display cabinets which she uses as a desk, spreading out the papers and files, poring over them, her eyes straining for mentions of crannog dwellers, prisoners, and, ever hopeful, shamans and witches. A plain-faced clock on the far wall marks the passing of the first hour. And the next. Tilda works on, taking care to replace the documents in the order she finds them, making notes in her notebook of any details that seem relevant or helpful, though it is hard to find anything beyond what she and Professor Williams have already unearthed. The chair soon becomes cripplingly uncomfortable, and she wishes she had brought more than a bottle of water to sustain her. She repeatedly stumbles upon the reference made in the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicles
. She knows how many people were taken, and where they were taken to. But then the trail goes cold. She sighs, stretching her aching back.

Nothing. Not a single, solitary damn clue.

She turns to look again at the boat. There is something so beautiful about its simplicity of design coupled with the certain solemnity given it by its great age. Tilda cannot resist going back to touch it again.

‘Are you Seren's boat?' she wonders aloud, her voice startlingly loud in the hush of the basement. She is suddenly seized by the urge to climb into the canoe. Experiencing a flash of terror at being caught taking such a liberty with a priceless museum exhibit, she knows as soon as the idea comes to her that this is what she must do. She pulls off her shoes and carefully steps into the shallow hollow of the narrow boat, steadying herself on the side, and desperately hoping that the stands on which the thing is displayed are strong enough to support the extra weight. There is an alarming creaking sound, but once she is sitting still the canoe feels stable. Once again the boat starts to sing, and soon Tilda's vision starts to blur and she begins to feel dizzy.

Just like with the torc. Should I put it on? Dare I?

It occurs to her that the combined effects of the torc and the boat together might prove overwhelming. The thought should terrify her, but it does not. In a moment of shining clarity she sees what it is she has to do. Sees how it is she will find the answers to her questions. Taking a long, slow breath, she removes the torc from her pocket and slips it onto her arm. She keeps her eyes open as long as she can, bracing herself against the swirling, lurching sensations and blurred sounds that assail her. Her mouth is horribly dry. Her brow is damp with perspiration. The lights of the basement room flicker and their artificial illumination is replaced by a brightness so white and so strong it makes her flinch. Her fingers begin to tingle, the sensation quickly increasing to an uncomfortable level.

Okay. I'm ready. Show me. Show me Seren's child! Show me what happened!

Tilda closes her eyes.

There is a shocking sensory assault as images of indistinct faces, of malformed animals, of eerie sounds and distorted words engulf her. A fleeting sight of the terrifying face of the witch from the dig almost startles her into opening her eyes, and she fights the urge to cry out, but it passes quickly. One moment the specter is there and the next it is gone again. Tilda forces herself to keep her eyes shut tight. For she knows this is how she will see, will
truly
see. She struggles to make out definite shapes among the phantasmagoria that dances in her pulsating vision.

‘Where are you?' she whispers. ‘Where are you?'

And as suddenly as the mayhem began, it subsides. Images recede, colors fade, until there is only a gently undulating blue light. And into this light comes a figure. Tall. Slender. Her hair braided with leather. Her eyes dark with kohl. Her skin patterned with bold tattoos.

‘Seren!'

Seren walks toward Tilda, her piercing eyes aglow, holding Tilda's own bewitched gaze, demanding that she continue to look. Tilda gasps as she sees that Seren is holding a small child by the hand. The little girl walks calmly beside her mother, her own silvery hair loose and wild, a happy smile upon her lips. The pair stands for a moment until the picture begins to shake and to judder and there comes the sound of thundering hooves. Seren lets go of the child's hand and clutches at her stomach. Appalled, Tilda watches as blood pours between her fingers, soaking her hands, flowing unstoppably, so that Seren staggers backward, growing fainter, melting into the darkening blue behind her. The child remains, continuing to stare at Tilda. All sounds cease. The vision becomes clear and still. For a blissful moment, Tilda looks into the eyes of Seren's daughter and finds a connection of such sweetness it makes her cry.

And then it stops. Everything stops. Tilda opens her eyes, wiping her tears on her sleeve, blinking as her sight adjusts to the more ordinary light of the museum basement. The vision was so strong, so vivid, so loud, that she is amazed to find that it has not brought Mr. Reynolds running.

But he couldn't hear it. Of course he couldn't. Only me. I saw them. I saw them both.

*   *   *

On returning to the cottage, Tilda feels completely exhausted. She phones Dylan to put off his visit, claiming a light cold, and takes a long shower in an attempt to shake off the curious sense of dread that the vision has left her with. Her mind is a whirl of confusing thoughts. She should be so happy that she has seen the child, Seren's child, but that happiness is tainted by the sight of Seren dying such a brutal and violent death. Tilda goes back into the studio and tries to work, but nothing will go right. She replays in her mind the scene she witnessed, over and over. She knows now, beyond any doubt, that Seren had a little girl. And the vision seemed to suggest that the child did not die with her mother.

But does that mean she survived the attack on the crannog or not? I still can't be certain.

Later, she takes Thistle for a walk. She deliberately avoids the lake, mostly because it would be more than a little awkward if Dylan were to see her out and about, but also because, just for a while, she needs a bit of distance between herself and all that the lake signifies. Needs a break from the intensity of it all. She and the dog tramp up through the watery snow, following the sheep track behind the house. They climb for nearly an hour before resting on a crumbled bit of stone wall. The view of the valley is quite magnificent, even as the snow recedes and decays by the minute. The lake looks so much smaller from such a height, giving Tilda just the perspective she needs at this moment. From here the grave at the dig is hardly visible at all. As if it had never been found and disturbed. Or as if it had never been there in the first place. She wishes that were the case. She knows, deep down, that she will have to face whatever lies there. It will not leave her alone unless she does. It will have to be confronted.

But not today. Not now.

She sits and takes in the magical landscape for as long as her woolly layers keep out the cold, and then descends to the cottage to stoke the fires and make something to eat.

Come the night, despite being exhausted, Tilda's mind is working too fast, trying to make too many connections, for her to be able to rest. An hour before dawn she gives up and gets out of bed. Thistle raises her head and wags her tail.