‘It’s going to be okay, girl. You’ll see,’ she assures her, hoping the dog cannot sense the extent of her own anxiety. She pulls out the pegs, moves the rocks and peels back the plastic. It makes an unpleasant rattle as she folds it into an untidy heap, a sound that seems startlingly loud amid the quiet of the early morning. Now the large, flat stone that pins the body in place is revealed. Tilda quells a shudder at the thought of what that stone signifies, of what must have happened.
Now, what? Do I stand here and talk to … to what?
She waits, astonished to find that she actually wants the fearsome ghost to appear. That unless it does, she cannot confront it. She feels her stomach turning over. It would be so easy for her nerve to fail her. So easy to turn and run back along the shortest route to home.
But I can’t.
She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to picture Seren.
Are you here? I need you now. I need your help to do this. Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you brought me here for? Where are you?
She opens her eyes again. Nothing stirs, save a noisy mallard in the reed beds behind her. With a sinking heart, she realizes what it is she has to do. If she is to confront whatever lies in the grave, she is going to have to set it free herself. She jumps down into the trench and kneels on the slimy mud. Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda ignores her and takes hold of the edge of the stone, pushing at it with as much force as she can muster. It does not move. Not one inch. She redoubles her efforts, tries again, gasping and cursing as she strains against the hateful stone.
It’s not budging. Dammit. I need a lever.
She looks around and spies some tools leaning against some stacked boards by the fence. There is a broom, the handle of which is only wood and would surely snap under such pressure. There is a spade with a good sharp blade, but still, she fears, it would not be up to the task.
‘Look, Thistle, this will do! A pickax. Just the tool for the job.’ She knows she sounds ridiculously cheerful.
And it’s fooling no one.
Back in the trench she works the point of the pickax beneath a corner of the stone, then she stands on the other end of the metal head, using her weight to try to pry up the slab. This time it gives a little. Not enough to open the hole properly, but enough to fidget and nudge the stone a fraction to one side. Even so, with this method it will take more time and more energy than Tilda has to remove the thing completely. She steps back, using her soggy sleeve to wipe rain and sweat from her face. There is nothing else for it, she will have to use the torc to help her.
She takes it out of her zipped fleece pocket. She is not wearing gloves, and the moment it touches her skin, she feels a zing of energy pulse through her. It makes her hesitate. She begins to doubt her ability to control its force, to steer its power in the direction she needs it to go. In the kitchen she had marshaled it, had mastered it, but only just. And that was at home. This time she is standing in the grave of someone who wishes her ill. Her running clothes are properly saturated now, and she starts to shiver.
‘This is rubbish,’ she declares. ‘I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m scared. Let’s get this thing done.’
So saying, she shoves the torc over her wrist. It catches on the fluffy thickness of her fleece, so that she can jam it no farther than her wrist. She hopes it will stay in place. All at once there comes the swirling sensation, as if she is on a fairground ride, and everything around her blurs and spins. She plants her feet firmly on the uneven ground, taking hold of the pickax once more. This time, colored light pulsates in front of her.
Wow. This is what I imagine a bad trip feels like. Okay, just ignore it; stay focused.
As she slides the iron spike under the stone she can hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears, pounding erratically and at a worrying speed. She tries to ignore it, pulling all her attention to shifting the heavy weight at her feet, willing herself to use whatever it is that is inside her.
‘Come on!’ she shouts through the lashing rain. Setting her teeth, she hauls on the ax handle. ‘Move, you bloody piece of … Move!’
There is a grating noise, rough stone sliding over grit and mud and bone, and then it is done. The momentum of the slab’s own weight once it is in motion carries it over the edge of the grave so that it slews sideways into the dirt. And the tangled skeleton, twisted and broken, is exposed.
Tilda is just on the point of crouching down, reaching her hand toward the dark, stained bones, when she is knocked off her feet. She is flung backward, and lands heavily on the hardest, stoniest part of the trench. Winded, unable to draw a breath, the air driven from her lungs by the force with which she struck the ground, she clutches at her chest, struggling to make her body work again and take in oxygen. As she thrashes about in the freezing earth she turns onto her stomach, pushing herself up onto her knees, and all the time she can feel it coming, can feel the rotten soul of the long-dead witch in the grave rising up to loom over her.