The Silver Witch

‘You did it,’ he tells her. ‘You beat her. You were … incredible!’


‘I wasn’t on my own. I had a little help,’ she tells him as she stoops to retrieve pieces of shattered clay from the ground. She turns a portion of the Afanc’s tail over in her hands. It still feels warm, still carries within it the vibration of something vital and at the same time ancient.

‘You could make it again,’ Dylan suggests. ‘I mean, make another one.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. She did what she came to do. What she needed to do. I think I should leave her where she belongs now.’ She looks up and sees through the clearing rain the lake in the valley far below, the water starting to steam as the sun breaks through the clouds.





EPILOGUE

Tilda stands back and allows herself a moment to admire the completed pieces that now fill the shelves in the workshop. It has been a productive few months. After the dramatic events at the end of last year it had been bliss to sink herself into her art once more. In truth, she cannot remember a more creative time in her life. The connection she has found with the lake and all that it signifies now fires her artistic impulses. Her gleaming pots and wilder one-off ceramic pieces are fine creations. She feels it in her heart.

A tapping on the glass doors makes her turn. Dylan holds up two mugs of tea.

‘Leave those for one minute and come out here. It’s too glorious to miss,’ he says.

She dusts the gritty glaze residue off her hands, brushing down her checked work shirt, causing specks of unborn color to dance in the late-afternoon sunlight that streams into the studio. As she steps outside, she breathes in air heavy with the scent of blossom from the apple tree. It has survived yet another harsh winter and is now a mass of pink-and-white blooms. Dylan hands her the hot drink.

‘You’re right,’ she tells him. ‘Glorious. Completely glorious.’

Spring has transformed the landscape. The lake shimmers beneath the warming sun. Flocks of small birds have returned from their winter homes to build nests on the marshy shores. The larger waterbirds are busy gathering reeds and weeds for their own haphazard nurseries. The verdant meadows are dotted with clean white sheep and even whiter lambs, which rush about in unruly groups, leaping and jumping for the sheer fun of doing so. The week has been mild, but there is still a chill in the air, which gives it such a freshness, such a purity that it might be intoxicating.

Dylan slips his arm around Tilda’s shoulders.

‘Temperature’s dropping. Might need a fire tonight.’

Tilda smiles at this. Her relationship with Dylan seemed to have begun in front of the very fire he is talking about, on the very rug on which he will no doubt persuade her to lie again. She knows it is still the place he feels closest to her.

‘Oh, I think it’s going to stay fine. The year is warming up. No need to waste firewood,’ she teases.

A movement catches her eye. In the field below the garden a large brown hare lollops silently into view. Tilda gasps and her hand flies to her mouth. It has been so long since she has seen it, and now that it is here again she is taken aback by how happy she feels. The hare nibbles at the new shoots of grass beside the path. Before she can be stopped, Thistle has bounded over the wall and races toward it.

Dylan sees her. ‘Thistle, no!’ he shouts instinctively.

But Tilda puts a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It’s okay.’

As they watch, the hound circles the hare before crouching down in front of it, ears flat, tail wagging, an open invitation to play. The hare regards the lurcher thoughtfully for a few seconds and then leans forward. The two sniff, nose to nose, one set of twitching whiskers, one bristly moustache. And then they start to run. They tear around the meadow, this way and that, along the hedgerow and back across the grass, down the steepest part of the hill, and back up alongside the path. The hare easily keeps ahead, but sometimes she twists and jinks back so quickly that Thistle ends up in front and it appears she is the one being chased. It is a sight both comical and marvelous.

Then, as quickly as it started, the game stops. The hare turns to look up the hill, up toward the garden wall, up at Tilda. She looks down into the bottomless depth of the animal’s ancient, knowing eyes, and feels a pang of longing and of love.

Hello Seren. I’ve missed you.