The Silver Witch

‘I wanted to come and help,’ he says, looking a little hurt. ‘Sorry.’


‘No, I’m sorry.’ Feeling bad, Tilda tells him, ‘Lucas came to tell me they are resuming the dig. A couple of days after Christmas.’

‘We can’t stay here much longer,’ Lucas explains. ‘Digs are costly. And it’s not doing the contents of the trench any good having them exposed to all this weather. Really, the sooner we get everything out and back to the university the better.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ Dylan says, rather pointedly greeting Tilda with a lingering kiss on the cheek. ‘Are you going to open that kiln up?’

‘Oh, it’s too soon, I think.’

‘It’s gone twelve.’

‘Already? I hadn’t realized.’ She looks from one man to the other, wishing them both somewhere else. Neither has any idea how significant this moment is for her.

‘I might leave it a little while,’ she says.

‘Really?’ Dylan is genuinely surprised. ‘It must be cool by now,’ he points out, and then, seeing her reluctance, adds, ‘but it’s up to you, Tilda. This is your baby,’ he says, smiling.

Tilda glances at Lucas, hoping against hope that he might decide he has something better to do and take himself off.

No such luck.

Dylan follows her gaze and says baldly, ‘Haven’t you got a hole to dig somewhere?’

‘Not today,’ he says.

Despite herself, Tilda feels the need to defend him. However much she might want him gone at this moment, she dislikes Dylan taking it upon himself to dismiss her visitor.

‘It was good of Lucas to come up and tell me about the plans for the dig. He … he knows it matters to me.’ An uncomfortable silence follows, which is not helped by Thistle slinking away from Dylan’s outstretched hand. ‘Oh, let’s open the damn thing!’ Tilda says quickly, unable to stand the strain any longer. ‘Dylan, could you pass me the chisel and hammer, please? They’re next to you, in the toolbox.’

He scrapes snow off the lid and takes out what Tilda needs, handing the chunky tools to her. She rests the sharp end of the chisel between the bricks of the door of the kiln, where the mortar is thinnest. Taking a firm swing with the mallet, she starts to tap, each strike growing a little stronger. Soon there is a gap forming. She works her way along until there is a space running along two sides of one of the smaller bricks. Soon she is able to wiggle the brick loose and then remove it altogether. She repeats the process with the next door brick. And the next. It is warm work, and her hand is beginning to blister, but she turns down Dylan’s offer of help. She works on. As the opening becomes larger, the pots inside can be seen.

Are they okay? Has it worked? Has the firing worked, or have I ruined everything? Oh, please don’t let them be a mess. I should have fixed the electric. I’m a coward. Why did I attempt this?

‘Can you see in there yet?’ Dylan asks, peering over her shoulder.

‘A little. Just need to get the next two or three bricks out…’

At last, the door is completely dismantled. Tilda puts down the hammer and chisel, whips off her fingerless mittens and drops them into the snow. She kneels down in front of the kiln. Something of her own anxiety has passed to the men, so that the three of them stare in tense silence as Tilda reaches inside the makeshift oven. Slowly, with the utmost care, she takes hold of the first of the pots and lifts it out. She turns and sets it down on the small patch of ground close to the kiln, which is free from snow because of its proximity to the fire. She sits back on her heels and stares at the large, bulbous ceramic pot in front of her. For what seems like an age, nobody speaks. And then, without warning, Tilda’s eyes fill with hot tears.

Oh my God.

‘Tilda.’ Dylan puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Tilda, that is bloody fantastic.’

‘It is,’ Lucas agrees. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s incredible.’

They are right. Through the blur of her tears of relief, Tilda can see that they are right. The kiln has done its work. The cold clay and gritty glazes have yielded to the heat and been transformed into something spectacular. Something magnificent. The base color is that of the rich brown soil of the lowland meadows. The rock salt Tilda applied so cautiously has pitted and pocked the surface, giving a wonderfully rugged, natural texture to the pot. The glazes have oxidized perfectly, so that the subtle colors she selected for the running hound and hares seem to flash and flare even in the low light of the overcast day. And through it all, woven into the intricate pattern the chasing animals form, there is the glimmer of gold, snatches and splashes of the precious metal, causing a magical sparkle and brilliance set against the dark background.