The Silver Witch

‘Be careful when you do. Have you got it on the right circuit? Those things are pretty heavy on power.’


‘Yes, the manufacturer sent someone to set it up.’

They both stand in the hall, waiting. Tilda finds herself almost wanting the fuses to blow again, just so there is something for Bob to actually fix.

‘Now I feel stupid,’ she says. ‘Seems like I dragged you up here for nothing.’

‘No problem.’ Bob finishes his tea in a few gulps. ‘The ride down that hill will be worth it.’

‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothing too terrible. I’ll pop an invoice in the post. Call me if you have any more trouble.’

She watches him descend the lane with increasing speed. It is still early, and there is a fluffy mist sitting over the lake today. The mountains beyond rise up through the froth of white, their peaks dark and sharp against the lightening sky. Thistle pads out to join her in the front garden. She wonders if the dog will be well enough for at least a walk in a couple of days.

‘Well, if either of us is going to be up to exercise, we are going to need some proper food. Come on, let’s see if I can’t magic up groceries on the Internet.’

Back in the kitchen Tilda switches on her laptop and starts to feel quite excited at the prospect of fresh fruit, meat, interesting salad, perhaps some sinful puddings, and a bottle of her favorite wine. The computer chirrups encouragingly, displaying the home page so brightly she is forced to dim the screen a little. She is just on the point of selecting a supermarket offering deliveries in the area when the screen goes blue, then gray, then, with a pathetic whirring sound, darkens completely and falls silent.

‘Damn.’ Tilda slumps back in her chair with a sigh. Before she has time to do more than shake her head there is a sharp bang and all the lights fail again. Seconds later she feels her leg being nudged and looks down to see Thistle, who has tiptoed over to stand beside her. The dog nuzzles her and wags its tail anxiously. That the animal should be so sensitive to her emotional state touches Tilda.

‘What a pair we are,’ she says, gently stroking the dog’s velvety ears. ‘You all lame and creaky, me unable to get on with the simplest things. And both of us living in a house that doesn’t seem to want to have electricity in it anymore.’ She takes a deep breath and snaps shut the lifeless laptop. ‘Okay, we can’t go on like this,’ she tells Thistle. ‘You stay here and … well, get better. I’m going for a late run that’ll take in the village shop. I promise I’ll return with food. We can have a proper meal, and then I’m going into the studio to do some work. That sound like a plan to you?’

Thistle answers by padding back to her bed and curling up, nose on paws, tail on nose, clearly settling for a nap.

Outside the air is fresh in the sunshine but drops several crucial degrees to become chilling once Tilda descends into the mist. Even though the hour is later than her usual run time, there are no other walkers out braving the damp and gloomy conditions along the lakeside footpath. Tilda falls into the rhythm of running, finding solace in the repetition of easy, fluid steps. Footfalls crunching on fallen beechnuts. Step, step breathe. Step, step breathe. Heart strong and steady, lungs working calmly.

No need to think. No need to feel. No need to remember. Just here and now. Just this. Only this. You are strong. You are strong. Tilda loves to run. Tilda needs to run.

She takes an unfamiliar route, but follows a clear path. To her left, set back among the marshy side of the lake, she can just make out a small, dilapidated building, so overgrown it is almost entirely hidden by ivy and brambles. The closer the path gets to the water, the denser the fog becomes, so that soon she is running as if within a narrow tunnel through the miasma. Sounds become muffled and distorted. A cawing crow, its voice flattened and stretched, flaps from a low branch, the movement of its wings disturbing the swirling milkiness around it. Some way off, a tractor rumbles across a field, one second sounding close, the next very distant. Tilda can make out the honking of geese upon the water, but visibility is limited to a few yards, so that she can only see the reedy shore and the shallows of the lake’s edge. As she runs on she notices that her eyes are struggling to make sense of the floating landscape around her. Low branches across the path seem to stretch out like so many arms reaching for something unseen. The gritty track beneath her feet appears to rise up and fall away as she strides over it. Among the sounds of birds and the tractor she can discern something new. A noise from the surface of the water, rhythmic and fluid. Splash, swoosh, splash, swoosh.