The Silver Witch

Something great.

And there is only one thing, one being, of such stature living in Llyn Syfaddan. My heart quickens and my blood warms at the thought that she is near. I dare not move, but remain as I am, waiting, hoping. The lake in front of me seems to flow this way and that now, as if it were a river undecided on its course. I can hear nothing, but I sense her presence. With care, I straighten, standing to better view the lake. A tense stillness descends. Even the restless owls in the woodland behind me cease their hooting and hunting. Small creatures in the undergrowth stop their scurrying and burrowing through the snow to listen, paws raised, noses twitching as they sniff the air. When she arrives, when she breaks the surface and raises her glorious, proud head high, it is the most graceful of actions. Water falls from her noble head, but it does so softly. She blinks slowly, her indigo eyes looking directly at me. She is the only Afanc upon which I have ever laid eyes, but I know in my heart she is the most beautiful that ever was. Her long neck is elegantly curved, down to her broad shoulders just visible above the surface. She gently moves her powerful limbs to keep herself afloat. Though this night I cannot see them, I have done so before, and know them to be immensely strong, ending in broad webbed feet. She is the length of half a dozen horses from the tip of her upturned nose to the end of her sinuous tail. Her hide is not quite skin, not quite scales, but made of an ancient matter that lies between the two. Even though light is scant, she has a sheen to her, so that her whole being glimmers like the wing of a kingfisher, one minute blue, the next green, then black. She is by far and away the most wonderful, the most magnificent thing that I have ever seen or will ever see in this earthbound life.

I stretch out my hands toward her and take three steps closer, into the lake, stopping when the water reaches my waist. The cold chills my very bones, but I do not care, for I am happily enchanted by the water-horse. I can smell her scent now; she smells of pebbles and reeds and bulrushes. She smells of an age before memory. Of centuries of lives lived and lost. Of her own deep, unchanging world. She stretches forward, lowering her head, and I am able to touch her gentle face. What ancient wisdom this fabled creature has! What timeless magic! As my frost-nipped fingers stroke her iridescent cheek, my soul sings. I am blessed indeed to have the trust of such as she.

‘What should I do, my glorious Afanc? Should I speak to the prince of my fears, or is it better I hold such uncertain prophecies to myself? Tell me, mother-of-the-lake, what must I do?’

It may be that she is about to offer me a sign, something that will help me make the right choice, but I will never know, for at this very moment we are disturbed. The Afanc is the first to become aware that someone approaches. I cannot hear, nor see, anyone, but I can feel the horses as they draw near. Their hoofbeats spread through the ground beneath my feet like ripples through the water. The Afanc turns, lowering her head beneath the surface of the lake, and in one swift, silent movement, she is gone, vanished into the depths once more.

I hurry back to the shore. Who would be abroad at such an hour? Other than myself. Surely the inhabitants of the crannog will be settled in their ale-heavy sleep by now. And yet here come two riders, at some speed. As they approach I see they carry swords, and their faces are masked by the metal guards of their helms. Are we under attack? But no, these are not Vikings, nor do the horses show signs of having traveled any distance.

‘Who comes there?’ I call out, sensing that the danger is very real. I am trapped against the lake. I cannot run from them, and even if I attempted to do so, their mounts look fast and strong and would soon be upon me. ‘Give your names, if you are not afraid to do so,’ I demand, hoping to goad them into revealing their identities.