The Silver Witch

‘Come on,’ she nudges Thistle. ‘That feeble glimmer in the sky out there is what passes for sunrise in these parts. Best time of day for a run, so if you’re coming with me, shake a leg.’


Outside the wind has vanished with the night, and been quickly replaced by a light frost. Tilda pulls on her warmer running fleece and a thermal scarf to keep the icy air off her throat. She clips the pink collar and lead onto Thistle and they set off at a gentle pace. The dog looks sound and eager, and the pair are soon covering the hoary ground with ease. The wintry landscape begins to sparkle as the sun rises, so that the lake and its surrounding fields are rendered postcard pretty. Tilda takes the shortest route, and watches her new running companion closely for any signs of lameness or fatigue. She is impressed at the way the dog is able to lope along beside her, not once getting in her way or pulling on the lead. As they near the little wooden bird blind, she sees a figure emerging from it and recognizes Professor Williams at once. She waves to him, slowing to a halt, and waits on the path. Despite his years, the professor moves with strong strides, waving back, his binoculars around his neck, walking stick digging firmly into the ground with each confident step.

‘Good morning,’ Tilda calls to him. ‘You’re up early.’

‘Ah, dawn in winter is an excellent time for bird-watching,’ he tells her. ‘The migratory water fowl have either departed or arrived, and all have settled into their new habitats. Even so, the shy newcomers like to be up early to feed so as to avoid their more boisterous competitors.’ He indicates the dog. ‘I see you have a new friend.’

‘This is Thistle. She’s … been unwell. This is her first time out for a while.’

Professor Williams touches the brim of his tweed hat. ‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he says to the dog, who wags her tail politely by way of reply.

‘I’m glad I found you,’ Tilda says, seizing the moment. ‘I … I want to ask you more about the lake. About its history. I was wondering … if you could spare the time…’

‘My dear girl, nothing would make me happier. May I suggest tea? I have a fire laid in the hearth at home. Your courser will look very fine in front of it.’

‘My what?’ Tilda asks, falling into step beside him.

‘Your lurcher. She is a hunting dog, is she not? A hare courser?’

‘Oh, well, she was supposed to be. She wasn’t any good at it, apparently.’

‘Probably just as well. There are few enough hares left as it is. In any case, she has the look.’

‘She does seem to like lounging about in front of fires like something out of an old oil painting. You know the type, expensive rugs, stag’s head on the wall, hounds sprawled in the warmest place.’

‘On such a chilly day, and after brisk exercise? I cannot fault her thinking.’

The reassuringly sensible company the professor offers has such a restorative effect on Tilda that she all but forgets about the grandfather clock until she is standing next to it in the hallway of the Old School House. She sees that it is working again, and hurries on into the sitting room in the hope that she can escape causing the thing to break down. Professor Williams strikes a long match and sets it to the neatly twisted paper in the grate, and soon the sticks and coals have caught. He leaves Tilda examining the old map that appears to have a permanent home on his desk, and goes to make tea. Thistle stretches out on the hearth rug with a contented sigh. Tilda studies the details offered by the faded, beautifully drawn representation of the lake and its surroundings. The cartographer’s date stamp says 1908, which explains the absence of many of the buildings she is familiar with, particularly on the northern, busy side of the lake, but for the most part things are unchanged. She finds St. Cynog’s church again straightaway, with the Old School House next to it, and the Vicarage a little ways off, all set safely back from the shoreline. The crannog is marked, but only as an uninhabited island. Farther back, on the farside, various constructions in the village of Llangors itself stand out—another church, two inns, a lowland farm and a scattering of houses. Tilda studies the map closely without knowing what it is she is hoping to find or expecting to see.

A normal map of a normal place. A bit too recent for ‘Here be dragons.’