The Silver Witch

The snow still lies thick and frozen. Everything in the little garden, from the low stone wall, the wooden gate, the flagstoned path, the small lawn and the slumbering flower beds, to the frozen birdbath, is coated in a crisp layer of icing white. The valley below, and even the lake itself, sit snugly beneath their sparkling new coat of frosting. The distant mountains appear almost Alpine. Tilda tugs her beanie lower on her head, does up the toggles of her duffle coat, and moves to stand in the center of the lawn with her back to the house. Thistle watches her quizzically. Under the holly bush, a robin searches for something to eat. In the meadow farther down the hill, sheep bleat as they follow the farmer on his quad bike, eager for the sugar beets he is doling out of sacks into long dark lines on the snow. All is as lovely and as normal and as typical a scene of the countryside in winter as could be. All except for the shiver that travels down Tilda’s spine as she takes the bracelet from her pocket. A shiver not brought about by the cold, but by a thrilling blend of anticipation, excitement, wonder and fear.

She wriggles the bracelet over her hand, her fingertips showing blue-tinged cold out of her fingerless gloves. With awkwardness, she pushes the gold band up under the sleeve of her duffle coat, beneath her fleece and thermal T-shirt, until she feels the metal’s now-familiar warmth against her flesh. The transformation is immediate. Straightaway, the bracelet’s charge, its energy, courses through her body, banishing the chill of the December day, filling her with a warm strength. Where the gold sits against her bare skin she feels as if she is being burned, feels certain that this time there will be a mark, a scarring from such heat. And yet she has no wish to stop it, to remove the bracelet. The pain is a price she is more than willing to pay.

She starts to hear whispering voices and to see the flitting figures and shapes once more, always moving, always on the very periphery of her vision. Beside her, Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda is aware of her dog’s anxiety. She wants to say something to comfort her, to reassure her, but no words will come. Her whole being is overwhelmed by the tumultuous experience wearing the bracelet triggers. Once more, she becomes aware of a change in the quality of the light around her. Even here, outside, in the brightness of the day. There is a phosphorescence to the air that surrounds her. More movement disturbs her vision, and again the lurching giddiness threatens to take control of her stomach.

Tilda closes her eyes tightly and the shapes become instantly clearer, sharper, bolder. She sees the hares again, running, ears flat, twisting this way and that. And the hound, silent and swift. And birds again, cawing crows this time, and a buzzard casting a broad dream of a shadow with its majestic wings. Tilda searches for faces. And for the Afanc. She longs to find the magnificent creature. Wants to experience again its ancient, magical presence. But today it is absent, and the dancing animals move ever faster, increasing her dizziness. The ringing in her ears is building, too, quickly reaching a painful level.

It’s too much. I can’t control it!

Instinctively, she opens her eyes. The supernatural brightness is shocking, making her blink and gasp, her sensitive eyes smarting, her vision blurring. For a moment she fears she will fail; that all she can do is snatch off the bracelet to make it all stop. She has her hand on the gold loop, ready to wrench it from her arm, and yet she pauses.

It’s not the bracelet … it’s me. This is in me, somehow. And if that’s true, then I must be able to handle it. I must!

Slowly she takes her hand away, holding her arms out to balance herself. No shapes appear in the blinding whiteness that reflects, dazzling, off the snow. No diamond-eyed woman. No mythical water-horse. Just glare and noise, both painful and overwhelming. Tilda can feel her heart thudding, the beat of it pounding against her eardrums, blood surging, the sensation of plummeting threatening to make her pass out.

No! Dammit, no!

She flings her arms wide and her head back.

‘Stop!’ she shouts, the word echoing around the valley, rebounding off the hills again and again, repeating and insisting. Stop! Stop! Stop!

And it does. Or at least, the unmanageable parts of it do. The deafening ringing noise ceases at once. The strobing whiteness fades to a softer glow. The swirling sensations and the bewildering giddiness abate, so that she stands steady now, stable, strong. She is aware of a powerful tingling in her hands and feet, and when she looks closer she sees that her fingertips are fizzing. Tiny blue flashes crackle from them, like the arcing of circuits shorting out. Tilda steps over to the snow-covered stone birdbath on the wall and reaches out to touch it. As her fingers get close the snow recedes, melting as quickly as if she had touched it with fire. Cautiously she brings her fingertips to her cheek. There is a zinging vibration, but no pain, no burning. She looks around the garden. Thistle stands close by, her eyes never leaving her mistress. If she is frightened she does not show it.