The Silver Witch

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.