The Silver Witch

Too late, Tilda remembers what manner of dog she has at her side. And that that dog is no longer on the lead. In another heartbeat, Thistle is racing forward, any hint of fatigue vanished, all the animal’s instincts telling it to chase, chase, chase!

‘Thistle, no! Stop!’ Tilda shouts, but her cries are pointless. The hare turns and bounds away, its powerful hind legs propelling it across the hard ground with astonishing speed. Thistle is a dog possessed of a single thought now, and soon closes the gap between herself and her prey. The hare jinks and twists, leading its pursuer in zigzags up and down the hill. Tilda runs after them, hampered by the heavy books she is carrying, and with little hope of either catching the dog or getting it to listen to her. The hare darts off the path and around a corner, so that in an instant both creatures are out of sight. Limbs aching, muscles burning from the effort, Tilda forces herself to follow as fast as she is able. She rounds the bend, dreading what she might find, half expecting to see her dog savaging the defenseless hare, tearing it limb from limb, its beautiful fur bloodstained and gory. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have conjured up the scene that greets her. The hare has stopped running and sits, apparently unperturbed, as Thistle bounces around it playfully, tail wagging, clearly having no intention of hurting it. Tilda stares at the bizarre spectacle of a lurcher, a dog bred over centuries for hunting hares, rolling on the sparse meadow grass, ears flat, paws outstretched toward its new playmate in an attitude of utter submission and friendliness, while the hare sits inches away, calmly washing its whiskers with its tiny paws. Tilda stands stock-still as the hare slowly lollops toward her. It comes closer and closer, until at last it is only inches in front of her, and Tilda has the strangest sensation that it is somehow studying her. Just as she wonders if she could reach out and touch it, the hare leaps in the air, twisting so that it lands facing in the opposite direction, speeds off back down the hill and disappears through the hedge at the bottom of the field. Thistle comes panting to stand next to her mistress.

Tilda regards her pet with amazement. She shakes her head and smiles. ‘You are one very strange dog, you know that? Come on, there must be something left at home we can call breakfast.’





7

TILDA

Later the same day there is a dramatic drop in the temperature. After a frustrating session in the studio, where nothing seems to want to go right, Tilda shares the last tin of chicken soup with Thistle, and the two of them retreat to the sitting room. Tilda banks up the fire, wondering how long the log supply will last if she has no central heating to back up the wood fires and stoves in the house. She pulls cushions off the small sofa and hunkers down on the rug as close to the crackling flames as is sensible, with Thistle curled up beside her. She has lit a paraffin storm lantern, which smells more than a little, and gives out a low light that is helpful, but not steady or strong enough to read by. A moment of inspiration drove her to dig through the unpacked box of camping gear to find a headlight. Tilda has put new batteries in it and adjusted the headband to make it as comfortable as she can, and now the thing provides a narrow beam that neatly illuminates a page at a time as she leafs slowly through the books Professor Williams lent her.

The images of Celtic knot-work are quickly becoming familiar to her. There are standard shapes and patterns that seem to have been employed in a variety of ways. Animals, birds and flowers are often incorporated into the designs, twisting and entwining with one another, their heads and bodies stylized and elongated, their eyes always watchful and sharp.

Yes, these. On my pots, these would work. The animals, in particular, I think.

But it is too late in the day, and too dark in the sitting room, to attempt sketching. Instead she puts the book aside and chooses the next. A moment’s turning of the pages reveals impenetrably dense text regarding the history of the lake. Tilda feels unequal to the task of reading it. She knows there must be fascinating facts hidden somewhere in the plodding prose, but she is not in the right state of mind to tackle it.

The third book is the one the professor chose for her, almost as an afterthought. Only now has she had the chance to look at it. She reads the title out loud to Thistle.