The Silver Witch

Come on feet, one in front of the other. Footsure. Step, breathe, step, breathe. I can do this. Run, girl, run!

She is soon racing along the rough path, the rain still falling heavily, streaming down her face, making the colors of the day weaken and merge. Suddenly, through this murkiness, she sees something on the track ahead of her. Sitting small and still in the center of the path is a large brown hare, its fur surprisingly dry, its eyes bright and watchful. It does not run away. Instead it appears to block her route, carefully moving from side to side so that she has to go off the track to try to get round it.

‘Let me by, bunny,’ she says breathlessly.

But the hare won’t get out of her way. Tilda stops and stares at it. Before she has time to question what she is watching the animal starts to grow, and to pulsate, and to writhe and wriggle. Tilda steps back, wondering if near-drowning has starved her brain of oxygen and has sent her mad.

First the Afanc, now this! Am I dreaming?

In seconds the hare has gone, transformed into a strong, striking woman who stands as solid and real as anything else in the landscape.

‘Seren!’ Tilda’s heart races. She is transfixed, but she is not afraid. Rather, she feels emotion threaten to overwhelm her. Now that she knows she is looking at her ancestor, and after all she has just been through, the connection she feels with the person who stands before her is so powerful it is beyond anything she has experienced before. ‘You came’ she sobs at last.

When Seren speaks, her voice is not some ethereal whisper, it is clear and firm, a tone not to be argued with.

‘You must return to the grave,’ she says.

‘What?’ Despite the doom-laden nature of the statement, Tilda understands this is not a threat. She knows Seren is speaking of the grave at the dig site. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I have to get to the cottage. Dylan is in terrible danger. You must know that.’

‘You cannot defeat Nesta without what is in the grave. Take what protection Hywel holds. Go now!’

And she vanishes. As if she never was. And Tilda is alone again. She gasps, trying to make sense of Seren’s words.

Does she mean the torc? It’s true, I was useless against the witch … she called her Nesta … without the torc maybe I won’t be able to help Dylan. Oh, I’m going to be too late!

She sets off running again, faster this time, pushing harder, gulping air as she forges on, turning toward the dig site, all the time fearing that it will all take too long. That Dylan will die.

As she approaches the trench, she looks for Thistle and spies her bedraggled body in the muddy area beside the dig. Hurrying over to the limp dog, she falls to her knees beside her.

‘Oh, Thistle! You poor little thing. You were so brave.’ She puts her hand on the soggy fur on the hound’s head. The blow from the ax did not penetrate the rib cage, but dug deep into her stomach. The earth beneath her is sticky with cooling blood.

But not that much blood. Why isn’t there more?

She realizes that the cold must have slowed the flow. Quickly, she puts her ear to the dog’s chest, searching for a heartbeat, praying that there might be something, even the faintest fluttering.

‘Nothing. Dammit! I let you die too!’

And then it comes to her. An idea so crazy that even in a day of craziness it seems beyond sense.

But why not? Why the hell not?

‘Okay, Thistle, listen to me. Your heart is a pump, right? Just a pump. A working part, like in an engine, or a bit of clockwork. And I can make things stop, and I can make them start again, okay? The torc! Where is it?’

She scrabbles in the mud, precious seconds ticking by, clawing at the gritty soil with her hands, trying to recall exactly where it was the gold band slipped from her arm.

‘I have to find it. For Thistle and for Dylan!’ She is nearing despair when she catches the glint of precious metal amid the grime. ‘There! Yes!’

She drags off her sodden fleece and flings it aside. Now she is only in her vest, but bare flesh is warmer than having a wet jacket clinging to her. And besides, she wants to feel the torc against her skin. Needs that connection. She jams it onto her arm, fixing it firmly above her elbow, determined it will not fall off this time. Immediately she experiences a surge of power and warmth flowing through her body.

‘Okay,’ she says, as much to herself as to the horridly lifeless dog in front of her, ‘I can do this. I can! Just letting something work again.’

She forces herself to calm down, to focus, to be quiet and still, to open her mind to the possibility of what it is she needs to do. Already her body is glowing from the magic of the torc. All she must do now is let her own ability work with it. She places both hands over Thistle’s heart and closes her eyes. Images flash before her mind’s eye. Hounds running. Fire. Water. The darkness of the lake. Seren. Nesta in all her fury. The warmth in her body intensifies, so that for a moment she is afraid it will prove too much for her, that it might burn her up.