The Silver Witch

Look. Look away. Look again. Standard reaction number three.

Into the awkward silence comes a woman—the man’s wife, Tilda thinks—holding a small girl by the hand. While the adults seek refuge in talking about nothing, the child stares openly from beneath a floral sou’wester. Tilda holds her gaze, waiting. She has her contact lenses in place, but she had not bothered with mascara or any sort of makeup for weeks now, so that her white lashes and brows are clearly visible. At last the girl, swinging her mother’s hand, asks loudly, ‘Why is that dog on a belt? Haven’t you got a proper lead? And why are your eyes funny? Are you blind?’ The mortified parents hasten to smooth over their daughter’s inadvertent rudeness.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says the woman, reflexively pulling her child back a pace.

‘It’s all right,’ Tilda says.

‘She shouldn’t ask questions like that.’

‘Really, it’s fine.’

The girl frowns deeply, causing her rainhat to drop a little lower on her brow. ‘But, Mummy, why does she look like that? And why hasn’t the dog got a proper lead and a proper collar?’

Tilda glances at Thistle’s makeshift leash, and has to agree that the belt buckle looks uncomfortable on the dog’s slender neck. She crouches down in front of the child. ‘You know, you’re right. She does need a proper collar. And a lead. I’m going to go and buy her one right now. What color do you think I should get?’

The girl gives the question serious consideration and then says firmly, ‘Pink.’

‘Right. Pink it is. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Can I stroke her?’

‘I think she’d like that,’ Tilda says.

The child moves closer, her nose only just higher than Thistle’s shoulder. She gives the animal a gentle pat. Both dog and child appear to enjoy the experience.

Tilda straightens up, smiling a practiced smile.

The parents breathe again. The moment of embarrassment has passed. The little family moves on with their day, the child turning to wave at Thistle. Tilda sighs and returns her attention to the lake. The archeologists are pushing a small boat out onto the water and placing some sort of floats or buoys at measured distances. Looking to the north, in the space between their camp and the car park, now Tilda can clearly see the original crannog. It is a small island, with little to give away its unique origins; the fact that it is the only such man-made island in the country, and is still there, settled onto the silky waters of the lake, over one thousand years after its construction. Now it is almost completely covered in trees, and is inhabited only by some of the more timid waterbirds that benefit from its protected status. The oaks and willows, their branches just patchily leaved now, are reflected prettily in the water, and Tilda at once finds herself thinking how she might use such shapes and patterns in her work. It has been a while since she felt inspired to try something new, and a tiny spark of hope inside her lifts her mood.

Maybe now. Maybe here. Those twisted boughs and shadowy trunks … soft grays mingled with the fading gold leaves. I could do something with that.

A nearby mallard quacks loudly for no apparent reason, causing Thistle to jump. Tilda notices that the hound is shivering a little.

‘You’re still not properly better, are you, poor thing? Come on, we’ll buy some chips in the café on our way home.’

Their route takes them past a shop selling camping equipment, fishing rods, and similar leisure supplies. There is no sign on the door barring dogs, so Tilda is able to take Thistle inside in search of a collar and lead. Minutes later the pair emerge with the dog sporting a rather bright pink-with-blue-paw-prints ensemble.

‘Sorry about the color,’ Tilda tells her, ‘but that must be a bit more comfortable, at least.’

Thistle regards her new mistress with a quizzical expression, her ears cocked and her head a little to one side, but otherwise keeps her opinion to herself. Together, they head for home.





SEREN


It is restful here, inside the single room that is my house. I do not have ornately carved chairs, nor costly tapestries, nor silver goblets. Mine is a simple existence, but I have all I need, and I am content. No man tells me what I should do or how I should be. I choose to live alone. To live separate. Some wonder that I do not crave the protection or the company life on the crannog offers, but what need have I of protection? True, there are those who wish me gone, but they are too afraid of me to act upon those wishes. And if they were to conquer their fear, still they would hold back, for in their hearts they know they need me to be here. For am I not, after all, their protector?