Fighting the urge to retch, Tilda falls back, her hands behind her, and attempts to scurry away, but there is nowhere to go. A foul stench bursts from the woman’s ruined mouth as she opens it and screams ‘Llygad am lygad! Bywyd ar gyfer bywyd!’ An eye for an eye, a life to a life!
At the sound of the rasping, shrill voice, Thistle leaps at the figure, snarling and snapping as she flies through the air. Tilda watches as the dog connects with the woman, expecting to see more blood and devastation wreaked upon her broken body, but, in a heartbeat, the apparition dissolves. Thistle lands, growling and biting at nothing. Nothing.
Gone. My God, she’s gone!
Tilda struggles to her feet, her whole being in a state of shock, her stomach turning over, her heart thudding as if she has just run up the mountain. But she is alone, save for the bewildered and frightened dog. Whoever it was, whatever it was, that came to deliver its message, has vanished.
Tilda puts a calming hand on Thistle’s head. It was obvious that the dog was terrified, and yet she had found the courage to try to protect her. She falls to her knees and takes the still trembling hound in her arms. ‘It’s Okay, girl. You brave thing. You scared her off, see? She’s gone. She’s gone.’
* * *
In the hours that follow the visitation, Tilda knows she has to take control of her fear. It would be all too easy to pack a bag and leave.
Hurrying back to Mum and Dad, tail between my legs. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t live the life we had planned. Couldn’t hack it on my own.
They would welcome her. They would understand—or believe that they understood—without asking unanswerable questions. Her father would enfold her in his boundless affection, and she would be safe. But then what? What would she do with her life? Would she have to live forever with her parents? Would she always be too afraid, too damaged, too unstable, too fragile to lead her own life? And what if the visions, the inexplicable things she did and saw and felt, what if they continued wherever she went? Perhaps this was a time when running was not the answer.
This is my home, dammit. This is my life.
And so she finds it is possible to be brave for hours at a time, particularly when she keeps busy. But then the wind rattles a windowpane, or a draught slams a door, or the darkness is simply too deep and too long, and Tilda feels panic rising. Panic at the thought that the ghost, if such it was, will come back.
What did she mean? What was she trying to say to me? What can whatever happened to that poor woman have to do with me?
Tilda has done her utmost to recall the strange words the woman spat at her. She is fairly certain they were Welsh, but this is an opinion formed from listening to the music of the language between modern-day Welsh speakers in the area. She knows no Welsh herself, and can only remember fragments spoken by the apparition, and perhaps one word clearly. A word that seemed to be repeated and sounded something like ‘bewit.’ A search through her pocket Welsh dictionary—a housewarming present from her father—has proved fruitless. She is unable to relax, to let down her guard, and yet she finds the thought of leaving the house difficult. Worse, the ghastliness of the apparition, its vehemence, the aura of despair and anger it brought with it, all have combined to halt Tilda’s progress with her work completely.
On the second morning after what she prefers to think of as a vision, rather than a ghost, Tilda decides she must go out. There are things she has to do. The situation cannot go on as it is. She forces herself to write a short list of what it is she must tackle. It reads:
Get translation of Welsh word
Find out about any local murders or ghosts
Get food
Start construction of wood-fired kiln
The last of these missions came to her in the sleepless watches of the previous night. Her sanity, and ultimately her livelihood, depend upon her producing finished pieces to sell. And soon. She can bring her mind and nerves to bear on fixing the electricity to work her kiln, or she has to find some other way of firing her pots. Once the idea of a wood-fired kiln presented itself the choice was easy. A firing done outside, beneath the stars, heat generated by wood grown in this very landscape, her work brought into being via a method so natural, so ancient, so somehow of-the-place, it was, after all, the perfect solution. The prospect of building her own kiln excites her, and the possibilities the process offered—the curious, slightly random results such firings were known to produce—these things appeal to her more and more now that she thinks about them. She will use natural glazes, work them with salt to produce free and flowing patterns of texture and color.
These pieces could be something special. Something really special.