The Silver Witch

Tilda eyes the bracelet anxiously, wishing she could snatch it up and hold it close, but aware that to do so would look more than a little weird. The bulb in the lamp gives a fat popping sound and goes dark. The rest of the lights in the room, however, brighten once more and remain steady.

‘Now, this might be of interest to you.’ Professor Williams lifts up a dusty, leather-bound book and angles it so that the light from the window falls upon the page. ‘I’d quite forgotten I had this until the other day. Written by a fellow called Humphries. Goes on a bit, he was an expert on Ogam text. Not much survives, but he busied himself translating whatever he found. All sorts of snippets. He places this as dating around 914 AD, although I have to say that’s probably an educated guess. Ah, here, an entry in the monastic records of that time, curiously not in Latin, for reasons we may never discover. The writer is unknown, but he mentions a feast held by Prince Brynach “… on the crannog of Breconmere, and in attendance was the entirety of the village, for all were made welcome to celebrate their good fortune, and the guest who was honoured for her part in protecting the crannog was the Seer, Seren Arianaidd.” There, you see?’

‘Do I?’

‘Your woman in the boat, I think. The one you mentioned you’d seen a picture of.’

Tilda remembers telling him this half-lie, and is at once ashamed of not trusting him with the truth, however bonkers it might have sounded at the time.

‘The way you described her to me,’ the professor continues, ‘suggests the garb of a shaman. One given to having and interpreting visions. A very important member of society at that time. Do you recall what color her hair was?’

Tilda hesitates. The woman in the boat had been wearing an animal skin headdress, so her hair was not visible. The vision Tilda had seen when she had put on her bracelet, that other version of herself, had, of course, had silver blond hair the same as her own. She cannot imagine trying to explain all this to the professor as he watches her over his reading glasses, waiting for her answer.

Were there two different women, or one? Who am I looking for, myself, or a ghost, or an ancestor?

‘I’m not sure,’ she says at last. ‘The first time I … I saw her, her hair was covered. After that … I’m not certain.’

‘I only ask because, well, there are clues here as to what she must have looked like, not least in her name.’

‘Really?’

‘“Seren” is still a common Welsh name. It means star. Rather lovely, don’t you think? “Arianaidd” on the other hand, is very unusual. I’ve never heard of anyone else being called that. It means “Silver.” So, she was known as Star of Silver. Which suggests she would have been very fair. Not unlike yourself.’

A chill wriggles down Tilda’s spine.

‘But we don’t know if she survived the attack on the crannog.’ She sighs, then a terrible thought occurs to her. ‘Lucas said something about the body in the grave at the dig. He said that sometimes people were buried with heavy stones on top of them if they were thought to have been witches. When the crannog was inhabited, would someone who had visions have been thought of as a witch?’

‘A difficult question to answer. The custom of foretelling the future is such an ancient one, and one that is found in so many diverse cultures. The early Celts certainly had their shamans, and they were important people, but seeing the future was not seen as magic. More a talent, or a gift.’ He gives a chuckle. ‘They might perhaps have been viewed more as our weather forecasters are today.’

‘So not witches, then?’

‘Ah, well, witches abound in Celtic literature and many other ancient Welsh stories. And there is nothing to say a Seer cannot also be a witch.’

Tilda feels suddenly weary. She drains her glass, letting the syrupy sherry pleasantly ease her tangled thoughts. ‘I’m beginning to think the more I find out, the less I understand.’

At this, the professor laughs more heartily. ‘My dear girl, welcome to the world of the historian!’

Dylan has returned to stand at Tilda’s elbow.

‘Is my uncle making your brain ache?’

‘He’s trying to help, but I can’t expect sensible answers if I can’t even form reasonable questions,’ she tells him, running a hand through her hair.

‘Perhaps another sherry would help?’ Professor Williams suggests.

‘Wow.’ Dylan is horrified. ‘No wonder you’re struggling. Sit yourself down. Lunch will be ages yet. I’ll open a decent bottle of wine, and between us surely we can work out what it is you need to know. Okay?’

Half an hour later, at Dylan’s insistence, Tilda has made a list. She is reluctant to read it out.

‘It looks even crazier written down.’

The professor smiles. ‘If I have learned anything from my years of study, it is that what at first appears incredible, often, when looked at from the correct angle, comes to seem entirely plausible.’