The Silver Witch

‘She will keep your secret as I have done,’ I promise.

The Afanc sighs, looking deep into my eyes a moment longer, and then moves back, causing gentle waves to lap at me. Without a single splash she slips beneath the surface and is gone.

I kiss my child, holding her close to me again. ‘You are fortunate indeed, my young witch, for the blessing of the Afanc is the greatest protection of all.’





16

TILDA

Tilda glances in the direction of the setting sun. As it drops behind the snow-covered mountains beyond the lake, it bleeds its color into the winter sky. Such a spectacle would, ordinarily, have halted her in her work, causing her to gaze in wonder. But today it serves only to remind her that the day is nearly over, and time is slipping through her fingers. It is now only two days until Christmas, and she has promised to celebrate with Dylan and his uncle, so she has only a few hours left before she will have to tidy herself up and tear herself away from the cottage. More important, she will have to put away the bracelet. Or at least, resist wearing it. The thought brings an anticipatory pang of longing. She marvels at how quickly she has moved from being afraid of what it brings her to being ecstatic about it. After the firing, Dylan had suggested a celebratory meal in the Red Lion. She had felt his disappointment when she had invited Lucas, and his relief when Lucas had declined the offer, saying he had more things to take care of at the dig site. In truth, she would rather have stayed at home. The success of the firing and the bewildering vision had ignited all her creative impulses to bursting point. She wanted to lock herself in the studio and draw what she had seen. Wanted to capture the image of the incredible creature that had appeared to her. Wanted to record all the minute details of what had danced and leapt before her eyes. Wanted to compare again the intricate design on the bracelet with her now-finished, glazed and fired artwork.

And she wanted to wear the bracelet again.

But not with Dylan there. Not with anyone there. So, she had gone to the pub with him, eaten a late lunch she scarcely tasted, drunk beer she hardly noticed, done her best to behave like a normal, reasonable, sensible person. Except that she didn’t feel normal anymore. At the end of the evening she had gently but firmly sent Dylan away, flinching at the wounded expression he had worn as he left. She had tried to explain that she needed to work. Just these few days, she had assured him. They would see each other again on Christmas Day.

‘I’ve lost you to a lump of clay,’ he told her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘It’s just that…’ she left the sentence unfinished.

‘Look, I’m pleased you’re happy. Glad to see you thinking about your work instead of … well, other stuff.’

Tilda could only nod. She allowed him to believe that the success of the firing had turned her attention away from all the strange and frightening things that had been going on. Even though he had witnessed what happened the first time she’d worn the bracelet, she still felt a reluctance to talk about it with him. She hadn’t even told him about the second time, when she had had the vision of the Afanc. She knew him well enough to be sure that he would not make light of it. That he would listen. That he would believe her. And yet, while she was able to be intimate with him, and even to have him share in her work, the way she felt when she wore the bracelet, when she connected with whatever it was she had found, it was just too personal to share. It was something she needed to explore on her own.

Now, at last, she is alone again, save for Thistle, who has become even more her shadow than usual. Tilda turns her back on the sunset and goes into her studio. The shelves on the right are now filled with the gleaming new pieces, fresh from the kiln. She runs her fingers lovingly over the surface of the nearest one. She could never have hoped that the glazes would work so perfectly, the colors fusing and melding, making the Celtic animals on each pot stand out, and yet at the same time blend into their backgrounds. The technique of applying salt to the glaze and packing it with reeds from the lake has produced stunning results. The salt has expanded and melted, creating warm, coppery splotches and splatters in random patches around the pots, with a swirling smokiness produced when the reeds burned away. The animals themselves Tilda had picked out and highlighted by hand painting them with a copper wash before firing, so that now they gleam and glitter. Looking at them calms her. Touching them makes a tingle spread lightly through her body.