The Silver Witch

Oars. Someone is rowing. In this? Why would they do that? Can’t be for the view. Fishing? Are they fishing?

The sounds grow a little louder. Stronger. Closer. Tilda stops and peers through the murk toward the body of the lake. Slowly a shape begins to form, as much of the mist as out of it. She squints and tries to refocus her unreliable eyes. At last, she can make out a small boat containing three shadowy figures. The vessel is wooden, low in the water, and of a curiously rustic construction. Two of the people in it are rowing, sitting with their backs to Tilda, pulling toward the shore. The shape and clothing of the third person are indistinct still, yet suggest a woman. Tilda blinks away the droplets of mist clinging to her eyelashes and wipes her face with her hand. Into her watery vision, as she stares harder, come the striking features of the passenger in the boat. Now Tilda can see that this is a young, beautiful woman, her hair concealed beneath twists of leather and some sort of animal skin headdress. Her skin is pale, but the light is too poor, the air too disturbed with mist, for Tilda to make out her eyes or her expression. What becomes clear is that all three in the boat seem to be dressed in some manner of costume, as if decked out for a historical reenactment, or a scene from a movie.

But why on earth would they do that now? Here? On their own?

They are so close now Tilda could call out to them easily. She raises her hand to wave, but something stops her. Something causes her scalp to tingle and the breath to catch in her throat. She can hear drums now, coming from farther around the lake. Suddenly the mist parts, clearing in seconds, so that she can see the expanse of water before her and even the far shore. But things are not as they should be. Instead of the low roof of the visitor’s cafe on the north side of the lake, she can see huts, clustered together, and smoke rising from small fires. And horses. And cattle. And strange figures moving about. There are no cars. No motorboats. No trailers loaded with canoes. Nothing is as she knows it to be.

Tilda’s heart starts to pound, although she is already beginning to feel cold from standing. Her mind is spinning.

Am I dreaming? How low must my blood sugar be? I must be dizzy from running and it’s making me see things?

The sound of oars being raised from the water and shipped snatches her attention back to the oarsmen. The boat has reached the shallows and the reeds, and the men are allowing it to coast as far in toward the shore as it will go. Every instinct in Tilda is telling her to turn and run, but she finds she cannot move. She is transfixed by what she is witnessing. By the impossibility of what her eyes would have her believe. And, most of all, by the strange figure now standing in the prow of the boat. The woman is tall and her movements graceful. There is such a quiet strength about her. As she waits for the boat to come to a halt she turns her head, slowly, scanning the shore as the mist melts away before her steady gaze. Tilda holds her breath, sensing the inevitability of what will happen next. She wants to move, to flee, but she can no more run than fly as the phantom woman continues to turn, until at last, unmistakably, her gaze falls on Tilda.

There is an instant of connection. A moment where all else seems not to exist, nothing but that moment of seeing and of being seen. It is both wonderful and terrifying. Something inside Tilda snaps and fear galvanizes her. As she spins on her heel and sprints away she hears shouts. Clear, loud, urgent shouts, as those in the boat alert each other to the presence of a stranger. There is a short silence, quickly followed by several splashes.

They’re getting out of the boat! They are coming after me!

Now Tilda runs. She finds a speed and power she did not know she possessed and pounds along the path. She can hear heavy footsteps behind her. She can feel the shuddering of the earth as the runners begin to close the gap. Frightened beyond reason, she increases her speed still more, even as the trail twists away from the lake, even as the mist returns to swallow up the fields to her right, to shorten her view to a few yards once more. Still she runs, blindly, wildly, though she can no longer hear her pursuers. And as she rounds a narrow corner she all but barrels into a tall, solitary figure standing firmly in the center of the path.





SEREN