The Silver Witch

TILDA

Although the skies remain clear, what snow lies on the ground has frozen, gaining a crisp crust through which it is impossible to walk quietly. Tilda and Dylan have wrapped themselves against the cold and set about the task of extinguishing the fire in the kiln. Thistle frolics in the snowy garden as they rake out the ashes. Overhead, the noonday sky is Alpine blue and so bright it hurts Tilda’s eyes now that she is without the protection of her tinted lenses. She had a moment upon waking when she feared facing the world undisguised might prove too difficult, but it soon passed. She already feels confident she can handle it. The way Dylan looks at her certainly helps, but more than that, she is aware of a subtle but crucial change within herself. As if she is more complete, somehow. As if she is stronger in an intangible way she would not be able to explain to herself, much less anyone else. It had taken her a while to realize that it was not fear she felt when she put on the bracelet and felt its power. True, she was afraid for Dylan, and the fire had been very real and very dangerous. But what she had experienced, what had coursed through her veins in the moment when the ancient band was on her arm, that was not terror, it was power. An awesome, magical power. Dylan had been quick to identify the bracelet as its source, but Tilda knew different. The precious metal against her skin, with its mysterious symbolic carvings, had most definitely triggered something astonishing, but she knew it was something that was already in her. The power came not from the bracelet, but from her. To be so out of control of such a force, to fear it might hurt someone she cared about, that it could be destructive, had scared her. The power itself, however, the overwhelming feeling of something magnificent inside her being ignited, that was the most profound, the most exhilarating, the most thrilling experience she had ever had. Dylan had been genuinely spooked by what had happened and had warned her against ever risking wearing the thing again.

But she knows she wants to.

She knows one day she will.

If I could learn to control it … if I could find a way.

‘Are you okay?’ Dylan put an arm around her shoulders. His expression is a mixture of concern and delight. ‘I’d be feeling pretty shaken right now, if I were you.’

But you’re not me. You didn’t feel what I felt.

She smiles. ‘I’m fine. Just a little tired. We didn’t get much sleep, one way and another.’

‘One way and another.’ He grins.

‘You know what was the weirdest thing about everything that happened? Seeing myself … like that.’ She had spent some time explaining to Dylan in detail what she had seen while wearing the bracelet. However crazy it sounded, he had listened. He had believed her. And that meant a lot. ‘I looked like me, but, well I was so different too. Those weird clothes, the knife…’

‘Don’t forget the tattoos. Perhaps it was your fantasy self, you know, the way you’d secretly like to present yourself to the world.’

‘I have never in my life wanted a tattoo. But, wait a minute! Why didn’t I think of that sooner? I’ve seen her … me … like that before. The woman in the boat!’

Dylan does his best to keep up. ‘Sorry, what boat?’

‘I haven’t told you? No, why would I have.’ She takes a breath, trying not to trip over her words in her eagerness to clarify the point, to herself as much as to him. ‘The day I met your uncle, just before I bumped into him on the footpath, I’d had a … a vision. I saw this woman, in a boat, with two men. She was someone ancient, from a different time.’

‘And scary, like the ghost from the dig?’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘She wasn’t … isn’t frightening. She’s not threatening. With her it’s different, somehow. But I know she is who I saw here, this time. Thing is, she looked so like me, perhaps it wasn’t a ghost. Maybe I was seeing, I don’t know, another version of myself, in another time?’

‘Are we talking reincarnation here?’ Dylan looks uncertain.

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. To be honest, the more I think about it, the less sense any of it makes.’

From the open studio door comes the sound of the telephone ringing. Tilda knows before she lifts the handset, which is gritty with clay dust undisturbed by use, that it will be her father. Her postcard might have held her parents off for a few days, but they were worried about her.

‘Is your mountain very snowy, Little Rabbit?’ her father asks.

‘It is. The whole valley is thick with it too. It’s very beautiful.’

‘Are the roads clear? Less than a week until Christmas. Your mother and I thought we might bring it to you this year. Turkey, mince pies, mulled wine, crackers, appalling jumper, carols on tape, DVD of The Sound of Music, the whole festive circus delivered to your door.’