The Silver Witch

Thistle gives up trying to make sense of her mistress’s babble and squeezes past her, through the door, and starts trotting around the garden, her decision clearly made.

‘Have it your way, then.’ Tilda stuffs the leash in her pocket, shuts what little warmth there is inside the kitchen, hitches her backpack onto her shoulder, jams on her sunglasses and strides purposefully after her dog. She has a clear plan in her head, and such method and action have given her some much needed courage. First, she needs to find out about women who were murdered, or maybe killed in battle, in the area, particularly if there are any ghost stories about them. If she is going to deal with being visited by someone so frightening, she has to know who exactly it is she is dealing with. Next, she needs to try to get those Welsh words, or at least the one she can recall, translated. As she is unable to use her own computer, she has decided to call on Professor Williams again. This time her questions will be considerably more specific. She knows this may mean she will end up talking to someone she barely knows about being visited by a terrifying phantom, herself being the cause of electrical and mechanical mayhem, and the other visions that have troubled her these past few weeks. He may think her quite mad. It is a chance she is prepared to take. Later, she will go to the village stores and stock up on food, as the cupboard at home is now depressingly bare.

The easy downhill walk is both warming and invigorating. As they descend into the valley, the ground is a little warmer, but still sparkling with frost, and the lake itself bears a thin glazing of ice. All the waterbirds have been forced to paddle on the icy shoreline. There is no wind, but only a distant, cooling winter sun, and Tilda and Thistle puff clouds of hot breath before them as they walk. The brightness and beauty of the landscape lift Tilda’s spirits, but her happier mood is short-lived when she finds that the professor is not at home. Having knocked on the low oak front door several times, she walks around to the mullioned kitchen window, pressing her hand upon it as she peers in. There is no sign of either light or movement. Thistle busies herself sniffing out a mouse trail in the vegetable patch.

‘Damn,’ says Tilda, only now aware of how fragile her newfound positive frame of mind is. For a moment she considers returning to the cottage, but a gnawing hunger tells her she must continue on the next part of her mission. She walks along the short stretch of road past the church and down to the lake, intending to turn left and loop around to the village that way. But when she reaches the shore, her attention is taken by the activity from the north end of the water, where the archeologists appear to be particularly busy. She still cannot bring herself to look through her binoculars, so she has not been able to follow their activities. She remembers Dylan’s offer to show her around the dig and wonders if he will be there.

Surely he wouldn’t go diving through the ice.

Before she has time to change her mind, Tilda climbs the gate to her right and follows the stony path that winds through the water meadow. As she nears the sight of the excavation, she can make out voices and counts at least five people, all of whom seem to be focused on a patch of earth set a short way back from the waterline. They are so intent on what they are doing that no one notices her approach until she is standing only a few paces behind them. Thistle keeps close, suddenly tense and alert, reminding Tilda that the dog has suffered at the hands of men before and might well be nervous of raised voices, mistaking excitement for anger. She briefly considers clipping the lead onto the dog’s collar, but reasons that restricting the animal might make it feel panicked.

‘It’s okay, girl.’ Tilda strokes her ears gently but Thistle shows no sign of relaxing. A familiar voice makes Tilda turn toward the large canvas tent that serves as the operations room for the dig.

‘Hello,’ says Dylan as he makes his way toward her. ‘Come to witness the great event?’

‘Sorry?’

‘They are hoping to exhume the skeleton today. From the grave they found. Or at least, that was the plan. I’m told the weather may hold things up.’

‘A body? Shouldn’t the police be here?’

Dylan smiles at her line of thinking. ‘I don’t think they work on cases over a thousand years old.’ He points toward the huddle of students, archeologists, and hangers-on. ‘They reckon the burial took place somewhere between the ninth and eleventh centuries. They’ll know much more once they can start testing the bones.’

‘Isn’t it strange to have a single grave like that? Why wasn’t the body buried by the church?’

‘Aside from the fact that it wouldn’t have been there then, you mean?’

Tilda shoots him a look, not enjoying having made herself sound dim.