The Silver Witch

‘A true artist, then.’


‘Not a very productive one recently. Until today, actually.’ Tilda is surprised to find herself telling him about the wood-fired kiln and the firing. He accepts her explanation that it was an artistic choice not to use a conventional kiln, and for a while the two talk about art and what it is she does and how she is both nervous and excited about opening the kiln. Eventually, though, the conversation falters and she knows they must return to the subject of the dig.

‘I’m sorry,’ she begins, ‘about … the other day. When you were lifting the stone … I didn’t mean to wreck things for you.’

‘You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault the lights blew out.’ He sips his coffee and then adds, ‘You were very … upset.’

‘I can’t explain. Well, if I do, you’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘Do you care what I think?’

She smiles. ‘In a small place like this gossip spreads really fast. I don’t want to be written off as the mad potter on the mountain just yet.’

‘Ah.’

‘Look, I’m not an academic, I haven’t studied the area for years like you have, I don’t really know anything about anything, it’s just that … well … there is something bad in that grave. Something really bad.’

‘And I’m setting it free?’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘But that’s what you said, when we were raising the stone. Those were your exact words, if I recall.’ He wraps his hands more tightly around his coffee and breathes in the steam.

He’s scared. My God, he hasn’t dismissed what I said as the ravings of a madwoman. Not completely.

She hesitates, and then asks, ‘Have you … noticed anything? Felt anything, while you were working on the site? Anything … strange?’

‘It would be easy to get spooked by the idea of disturbing a grave. It’s not something any of us does lightly. We try to treat the remains with respect. They were a living, breathing person, once. We are digging them up from their place of rest.’

‘Except that this one wasn’t resting peacefully, was she?’

‘It certainly looks as if she came to a highly unpleasant end,’ he agrees.

‘That’s putting it mildly. You think she was buried alive. And that the stone held her in place while they shoveled earth on top of her. It seems so terribly cruel, whatever she had done.’

‘It’s a mistake to read the past with our twenty-first century sensibilities.’

Tilda shrugs. ‘They are the only ones I’ve got.’

‘We’ve had some of the test results back from the samples Molly sent off to the lab. We can pinpoint the date of the grave, almost to the year.’

‘I know you’re dying to tell me.’

‘We think 910 to 920 AD. And the body is certainly that of a woman, aged between thirty and forty. She was healthy, in life. As we’ve already established, she didn’t die of natural causes. Her diet included fish, from the lake, of course, but also high levels of protein from grains and regular meat. She was not some lowly peasant, whoever she was. She must have enjoyed quite an important position on the crannog. Until…’

‘What did she do? What could she have done to deserve such a punishment?’

‘We will know more when we get to the grave beneath her. Once we know the identity of the person she was most likely accused of murdering, we will know more.’

‘He or she must have been important, you reckon?’

‘More than likely.’

Tilda swallows more hot coffee. She sighs, unsure how to tell him more. Uncertain just how much of the craziness he will be able to accept. She considers telling him about the bracelet. He might well have some ideas about its origins, and she knows it would be of serious interest to him. Perhaps even important to the dig. But she cannot be sure how he will react.

What if he decides it constitutes some sort of national treasure? He might make me give it up. Might take it off to be analyzed. I can’t let him take it. I can’t risk him doing that.

Into the hesitation in their conversation comes the sound of an engine laboring, growing louder. The noise is familiar to Tilda by now.

‘That’ll be Dylan,’ she says, getting up and slipping her coat back on.

The aged Landrover makes short work of the wintry conditions and powers its way up the hill. He gets out with his habitual energy and upbeat manner, but even from where she now stands in the garden, Tilda can detect the change in his body language at the sight of her visitor. She feels uncomfortable at him arriving and finding her with Lucas, though she knows she has no reason to. After all, this is her house. And Dylan has no cause to be jealous. Besides, it is far too early in their new and faltering relationship for anyone to be laying down conditions or becoming in any way possessive.

‘You’re early,’ she says, sounding cross when she hadn’t meant to.