The Silver Witch

Not afraid, but awed. Not fear, but wonder. Not revulsion, but … what? A need? A longing, somehow, that twisted my stomach to knots and made my pulse race. A yearning. All that time, all those nerve-tingling moments, not terror of the unknown then, but the rekindling of a far-distant memory. A memory that should have been passed down to me, but got lost, got confused along the way.

She does not see anything in the water beneath her. She is not aware of another presence. The first thing she feels is pressure against her back. Feels herself being moved through the gloom, being moved upward! Her mind is spinning, free falling, on the verge of losing conscious thought, so that she is unable to make sense of what is happening. All she knows is that she is being pushed up, through the choking water, toward the day that waits beyond the surface. When she is almost at the top, she can feel the immense strength of whatever it is that has lifted her at such speed, so that an instant later she surges up, breaking the surface in a great wave, gasping and gulping air the moment she is free of the water. Her throat burns and she coughs, spluttering, ridding her body of the water she had taken in when she plunged into the lake. She thrashes wildly, fearing that she will sink again, but she is sitting on something that keeps her safely afloat. She wipes water from her eyes and tries to see what it is that is now taking her to the shore. Instinctively, she grabs at the solid mass beneath her, and is astonished to feel flesh, warm and firm, and to see what can only be a neck lifting up in front of her. The creature raises its head now too, and uses its powerful limbs with their webbed feet to swim gracefully and easily toward the shallows.

The Afanc! My God, the Afanc!

If she wasn’t already so shaken, so shocked and battered by her experiences, by the bruising blows from the ghost, by the deadly cold, by the bellyful of water, by her own terror and by that final alteration in her very being, Tilda might have laughed, might have considered herself finally crazy. But she has no strength for such rational reactions. She is able only to slide from the back of the magnificent beast and crawl on hands and knees through the shallow water and onto the lakeside. When she turns, gasping, head aching and fit to burst, it is in time only to catch a glimpse of the Afanc’s tail as it disappears beneath the surface of the lake.





SEREN


The dream precedes the vision.

In my sleep I imagine I am lying in my prince’s arms, in his fine bed, a fire burning in the great hall, with no one to disturb us, no one to tell us this is not meant. Not right. But then there are noises, commotion, shouts outside. The raised voices grow more frightened and more urgent.

I sit up, awake, shaken from my sleep by the sense of menace that had descended upon us. And now, my eyes open, aware that I am in my own small house, my own small fire burnt low, my own small babe slumbering softly beside me, the vision takes the place of the dream. Unbidden and unsought it comes to me, with bright colors and loud clamorings. A seeing as bold and clear as any I have had. Armed soldiers, pouring down the valley pass, encircling the lake, loosing hundreds of arrows toward the crannog. They spur their horses recklessly into the water between the island palace and the shore. Many are cut down by the spears and arrows of Brynach’s defending men, but the numbers of the attackers are so great, they are a swarm, endlessly running between the mountains, galloping on, stopping for nothing, so that soon they ride over the bodies of their fallen brothers, over the still-warm horses that lie bleeding in the water of the lake.

I leap to my feet, causing Tanwen to stir, rubbing her eyes to see what it is that disturbs me. The vision has ended, but my heart remains heavy with dread. This was not some shadowy view of the distant future. The threat is real. The threat is now.

I sling my cloak about my shoulders, fastening it with a pin, and take Tanwen onto my hip. Outside, the night is still and warm. The moon sits atop the hills behind us, its silvery beams lighting our way, my own shape described in shadow in front of me as I run to the crannog. To the prince. Already I fear I will be too late. I can sense danger closing in, and soon I know the thundering of an army of warhorses will shake the ground beneath my feet.

The guard on the walkway to the island regards me with surprise as I dash past him, but makes no move to stop me. I run, breathing heavily now, straight to the great hall. Two soldiers stand at the door.

‘Out of my way!’ I all but scream at them. ‘Wake the prince!’

These two are not so ready to let a wild-eyed woman run into their master’s home, however much they secretly fear me. However much they know about the child that clings to me as I run.

‘Hold fast, Seren Arianaidd.’ The bravest steps in my path, his spear angled across the doorway. ‘What is your business with Prince Brynach? Give me a message, and I will take it to him,’ he offers, his voice gentle, his aim to placate.