The Silver Witch

TILDA

As the Landrover slithers down the snowy road, Tilda is too distracted to be concerned about car crashes or flashbacks, though Dylan had sweetly checked that she was okay about getting in the vehicle again before they set off. The discovery that her own design matches exactly that of something dug from the earth beside the lake has shaken her. She and Dylan both tried to reason it out—common Celtic motifs, Tilda has a dog and recently saw a hare, both animals could have been found in the area anytime over the last several centuries. Perhaps it is just that Tilda has tapped into the language of the art of the place. Perhaps she simply saw an illustration of an ancient image somewhere and the similarities beyond that are born of coincidence. Or perhaps they are not. She cannot shake off the feeling that there is something more, some deeper connection between herself and whatever it is Thistle found.

One thing she and Dylan instantly agreed on was that the man to help was Professor Williams. Tilda had hurriedly put in her contact lenses while Dylan adjusted the stoves to work gently, before they jumped into the Landrover, which, for all its great age and shabbiness, is perfect for negotiating the snow-covered slopes.

They find the professor clearing his garden path, shoveling snow and grit with surprising vigor for a man of his years. He greets them warmly and takes them indoors. Dylan and Tilda both talk over one another in their excitement, not letting up even as they take off their boots and he leads them into the sitting room, so that eventually he has to hold up his hands.

‘I’m sorry, but all this clamoring is impossible to make sense of. Now, I suggest one of you take a deep breath and slowly tell me what this is all about. Whilst the other remains silent,’ he adds quickly.

Tilda steps forward and holds out the bracelet.

‘Thistle dug this up by the lake,’ she tells him.

Professor Williams takes it from her, snatching up his reading glasses from the coffee table and setting them on his nose. He peers at the curious object, turning it over and over in his hands. Next, he abandons his glasses and from a desk drawer finds a photographer’s loop, the lens of which will allow much greater magnification. He presses the device to his eye, holding the bracelet beneath a standard lamp. Which instantly goes out, as do all the other lights in the house.

‘Damn!’ says Tilda.

‘That’s curious.’ The professor looks up. ‘It’s possible the snow has affected the power supply. Dylan, would you be so good as to check the fuse box for me, please?’

Dylan exchanges glances with Tilda, but goes to do his best with the fuses.

‘Why not use the light from the window?’ Tilda suggests, impatient for his verdict, and fearing the lights will stubbornly refuse to work while she is present.

‘Yes, why not?’ The professor leans as close to the mullioned glass as he can, positioning the bracelet so that the sunlight glints off it.

Once the professor’s attention is focused away from her, Tilda is able to still her mind, close her eyes and bring her own thoughts to a single point. She imagines the power surging through wires toward the little house. She imagines a spark of electricity, a fizz of energy, as she wills the connection to be made once again. There is a pause, a flash, and then the lights go back on. Tilda waits, uncertain as to how steady the flow will be, but it seems as if it will hold.

The professor’s mind is so absorbed by what he is looking at, he barely registers the working lights.

‘My word, this is quite splendid. Where did you say your dog unearthed it?’

‘Very close to the water, this side of the lake, just before you reach the bird hide. Do you think it’s bronze?’

‘Oh no, look at the purity of the metal. Look at the color. Scarcely a blemish. There is only one element that can so resist the ravages of decay.’ When Tilda looks blank, he explains. ‘Gold, my dear. It is incorruptible.’

‘Gold! But, it’s really heavy; it must be worth a small fortune.’

The professor resumes scrutinizing the details of the treasure. ‘Trust me when I tell you, if this is as old as I think it is, if its origins fit, well, the value of the material will be of secondary importance to its provenance. Ah! Lights again,’ he exclaims, at last properly noticing the return of the power supply.

Dylan comes back into the room. He looks at Tilda, the question written plainly on his face. She shrugs and shakes her head. The bulbs in the room flicker but then steady again.

‘The design,’ Tilda has to ask, ‘is it … is it common? I mean, hares and hounds were often depicted in Celtic art, weren’t they?’