The Silver Witch

So, the line continued. It really can be true. They are my ancestors. My family. All this crazy stuff, all the different ways I have felt connected since I came here—the designs on my ceramics and the torc; what the torc does for me; what I’ve seen; Seren, even the terrible being from the dig—it’s all because this is where everything started. This is where I started. This is where I belong, and where that mad spark of magic in me came from. Seren. The Afanc. The lake. Me. Here.

The notion that she is descended from the woman she saw in the boat, from the woman who she sees when she puts a loop of gold around her arm, somehow this makes sense of everything. She was meant to live here, in this magical place. She was meant to reconnect with her heritage. She cannot believe that coincidence alone has brought her here. She and Mat had visited the area several times before buying the cottage, and she had always felt an inexplicable affinity with the place. An affinity that surprised her, given her fear of water. When they had found Ty Gwyn, the cottage had felt so right, almost as if it had been waiting for them. But she had dismissed this feeling as one hundreds of house hunters experience after months of looking for their perfect home.

Only for me, it was more than that. This is my home.

And Thistle had found the torc.

And I found Thistle. Or did she find me, I wonder?

The timing of the dig seemed to be another factor that had heightened the chances of such a strong connection being made with the past. The ghost of the person in the grave was being disturbed, and that disturbance had led it to seek out Tilda.

Why me? What did my ancestor have to do with the person in the grave? There must have been something that happened, something huge.

She stops running. Thistle stops too, looking at her, ears pricked, waiting.

‘We have to go to the grave.’ She forms the statement aloud to the dog, but it is herself she needs confirmation from. ‘Tomorrow they’ll lift the body out. After that, well, there’ll be no getting the genie back in the bottle. Think I’d rather face her now, when that heavy stone weighs things a little in my favor.’ She turns down the path that will take her to the dig site. The going is horribly slippery, and the rain has increased so that it is starting to work through the fabric of her clothing. She spits away the water that courses down her face and increases her speed. As she approaches, she is relieved to see that the site is deserted. She imagines everyone will be away celebrating Christmas with their families for as long as possible before returning to raise the remains. There is something eerie about the empty tent, the abandoned trench and the general feeling of loneliness that permeates the place. She sets her mind against the wriggle of fear that is working its way in.

This is no time to get jittery. I can do this. I have to do this. That thing has got to see that I’m not going to be terrified by it anymore. That it has to leave me alone. I’m ready for it now. I’m not the defenseless person it thinks I am.

She reaches the grave. Lucas has covered it over with polythene sheeting, pinned down with tent pegs and weighted at the corners with hefty stones. The earth around the whole area is horribly churned up from all the activity of the preceding few weeks, followed by the harsh weather, and now the sudden thaw and heavy rain. Thistle stands close to Tilda, her body tense.

‘It’s going to be okay, girl. You’ll see,’ she assures her, hoping the dog cannot sense the extent of her own anxiety. She pulls out the pegs, moves the rocks and peels back the plastic. It makes an unpleasant rattle as she folds it into an untidy heap, a sound that seems startlingly loud amid the quiet of the early morning. Now the large, flat stone that pins the body in place is revealed. Tilda quells a shudder at the thought of what that stone signifies, of what must have happened.

Now, what? Do I stand here and talk to … to what?

She waits, astonished to find that she actually wants the fearsome ghost to appear. That unless it does, she cannot confront it. She feels her stomach turning over. It would be so easy for her nerve to fail her. So easy to turn and run back along the shortest route to home.

But I can’t.

She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to picture Seren.

Are you here? I need you now. I need your help to do this. Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you brought me here for? Where are you?

She opens her eyes again. Nothing stirs, save a noisy mallard in the reed beds behind her. With a sinking heart, she realizes what it is she has to do. If she is to confront whatever lies in the grave, she is going to have to set it free herself. She jumps down into the trench and kneels on the slimy mud. Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda ignores her and takes hold of the edge of the stone, pushing at it with as much force as she can muster. It does not move. Not one inch. She redoubles her efforts, tries again, gasping and cursing as she strains against the hateful stone.

It’s not budging. Dammit. I need a lever.

She looks around and spies some tools leaning against some stacked boards by the fence. There is a broom, the handle of which is only wood and would surely snap under such pressure. There is a spade with a good sharp blade, but still, she fears, it would not be up to the task.