The Silver Witch

She frowns, biting hard on the wood of the pencil, resisting the voice in her head that is telling her that drawing anything is pointless because she cannot, as things stand, translate her designs into ceramic objects. With a sigh she turns and squints out of the window. The rain is lessening, and the grubby cloud is beginning to lift. She can barely see the lake, but there is a glimmer on the tops of the hills beyond that suggests the weather is, slowly, improving. Remembering her binoculars, she leaves her sketch pad on the floor and goes in search of them. There is a stack of boxes in the corner of the studio, which seems as good a place as any to begin. She opens and closes several packing cases, bracing herself for photographs of Mat, or momentos of their time together. Mercifully, she finds what she is looking for within minutes. Standing at the picture window, she adjusts the glasses to her eyes and scans the lake. The church is easy enough to find, its tower a dark gray shape amidst the almost monochrome landscape. Even the water of the lake itself has lost all vestige of color, leaving it a pool of liquid metal dotted with smudged birds of indiscernible type. The crannog is similarly drab today, and even the powerful lenses do not reveal any helpful detail.

A movement catches Tilda’s eye. She shifts her focus to the west of the lake and follows the jerky progress of a minibus approaching the site of the archeological dig. She recalls noticing it for the first time during her visit to the populated side of the lake. The thought of excavating the past in such a way both intrigues and disturbs her somehow. As she watches, the vehicle parks next to the large tent that appears to be the center of operations. Five people get out and are met by two others who emerge from the tent. Together they walk quickly to the staked-out area nearer the shore. Tilda turns the dial on the glasses to keep the scene sharp. The figures crouch low on the ground, and even in these conditions, through the poor light and the water-filled air, Tilda can tell that there is excitement among the group, with a deal of gesticulating and nodding and pointing going on. She wonders at people’s ability to become so animated over what seems to be merely a misshapen hole in the mud. Her eyes are becoming tired with the strain of looking at such distant and indistinct objects, when, more suddenly than makes any sense, her field of vision is filled with a face. It is a face so terrible, and so hideous, and so close, it makes her scream and drop the glasses. But in that split second, in that instant when the image filled her view, the awful details of that face have been seared into Tilda’s consciousness: the bulging eyes, the smashed jaw, the swollen and bruised flesh, the mouth open in a silent scream, the whole so distorted and disfigured she cannot even tell if it is a man or a woman. Tilda takes a step back, expecting to find this fearsome person standing inches away on the other side of the window. But there is no one. Just the view and the weakening rain. Her heart is jumping and her mouth dry. Nervously, she glances over her shoulder, but Thistle continues to sleep undisturbed. The binoculars lie at her feet. She forces herself to pick them up. Lifting them, hands trembling, she puts them to her eyes once more, holding her breath as she does so.

Nothing. Just the lake. Fields. Trees. Nothing … more.

Yet again she finds herself struggling to make sense of what her eyes—her unreliable eyes—are telling her mind.

Is my brain becoming as fragile as my eyesight now?

She directs her gaze to the crannog, but it remains a tangle of blurred branches. A small flock of inland seagulls descend from the clouds and land upon the water. The farmer has decided to bring in his cattle, and two black-and-white sheepdogs race across the field to gather them in. The archeologists continue to enthuse about their brown patch of excavated soil. All is as normal and as unremarkable as it could possibly be. All except Tilda’s galloping heart.

Her nerves are so tautly strung that the ringing of the telephone makes her jump again. She snatches up the receiver on the workbench, more than a little surprised to find it still working.

‘Hello, Little Rabbit.’ Her father’s voice brings its habitual comfort. ‘Not interrupting great work, am I?’

Tilda closes her eyes, picturing his dear face, fighting to blot out that other, terrifying one and replace it with her father’s, gentle, reassuring features. She is grateful for the normality his conversation will bring.

‘No, Dad. You’re not interrupting anything. How are you? And Mum?’

‘As ever. I am between crossword puzzles, and your mother has gone out to do battle with the local planners over the possibility of fracking, I believe.’

‘Poor planners.’

‘I think it safe to say the people of North Somerset can rest easy in their beds.’

‘It’s good for her to have a project.’

‘Other than we two, you mean? Indeed it is. I have even been left to watch the rugby unharried.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And you, Tilda? How is life up there on the mountaintop?’

‘It’s only a hill, Dad, and I’m nowhere near the top.’

‘Even so, not many neighbors, not a lot of folk passing…’

‘I’m fine. Stop worrying.’

‘I fear it is written somewhere in the terms of my parental contract: Fret frequently about well-being of offspring.’

Tilda bites her lip, knowing that she cannot even begin to tell her father of the things she has seen. Thinks she has seen. Or the fact that she has no power in the cottage. Or how only moments ago she was frightened half out of her skin by something that wasn’t really there.

‘I’m fine, really. I’m fine.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

‘That’s ‘cause I’m always fine.’

They both know this is not true, but that Tilda says it because she loves her father and doesn’t want him to worry, and he lets her say it because he loves her and doesn’t want her to have to talk about difficult things if she doesn’t want to. Which makes her love him even more.

‘Your mother is talking about a visit,’ he tells her.