The Silver Witch(5)

‘There is nothing to be frightened of, Little Rabbit. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s very shallow, you know. You could walk from one side to the other. Why don’t we just try that? A bit of walking, hmmm?’

‘But the water…’ Tilda, at eight years old, had been unable to make anyone understand what she felt. It wasn’t really that she believed she would drown, it was the water itself. The look of it. The way it moved. The feel of it as it pulled against her legs, disturbing her balance, threatening to topple her. And then, what? She had never been able to put her head beneath the surface, even in the bath. What would she do if she went under here? She caught her breath at the very thought of it. It would be like death, she was certain of it, like death swallowing you up, in a silent, airless place. People weren’t meant to go there. It was meant for fishes.

‘Daddy,’ she said at last, ‘I’m not a fish.’ It was the best she could do.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised, laughing not unkindly, patting her hand.

‘No, little one,’ he agreed. ‘You’re not a fish.’

She never had learned to swim, and even her father, the most tactful man she knew, had been unable to hide his astonishment that she should choose to live so close to a lake.

Ah, the things we do for love.

Today she enjoys the stimulation of the proximity of danger. Of fear managed. She runs on, and has gone only a little farther when she becomes aware of voices. Though muffled by the mist, they are clearly raised, angry voices. Slowing her pace she peers into the gloom. She has never encountered anyone on her early morning circuits of the lake. The voices are coming from the field to her left. She can discern two men, both cursing, but not, she thinks, at each other. A sudden yelp reveals the target of their rage. Tilda reaches the patchy hedge and clambers more through than over it in time to see the taller of the youths land a second hefty kick on the skinny gray dog with scruffy hair that cowers on the ground in front of him.

‘Oy!’ she shouts before she has time to think of the wisdom of confronting two angry strangers when she is alone. ‘Stop that! Leave the poor thing alone.’

The men look up and see Tilda as she emerges from the mist. Her appearance startles them, and for a brief moment they stare, but are quickly over their surprise.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ the shorter one growls.

As she gets closer to the dog, Tilda can see a trickle of blood coming from its mouth. It is shaking with fear but unable to run away, as one of the men has hold of a chain that is fastened around the dog’s neck.

‘Why are you hurting her? What has she done that is so terrible?’

‘She’s useless,’ the dog’s tormenter tells Tilda. ‘She won’t do her job.’

‘Her job?’

The men exchange glances and Tilda realizes whatever activity they are engaged in is probably without the landowner’s permission.

‘Were you after foxes?’ she asks, though she knows this can’t be right.

‘Huh!’ the shorter man sneers, ‘this thing couldn’t catch a cold, never mind a fox.’

‘She’s a lurcher,’ the other youth points out, as if this explains anything. When Tilda remains blank he goes on. ‘She’s supposed to catch hares.’

‘Hares. But … why?’

At this both men lose their patience. ‘Look,’ says the nearest one, ‘it’s none of your business, okay? You don’t know about dogs.’

‘I know you don’t teach them anything by kicking their teeth out,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

The taller man yanks on the dog’s chain, forcing it to stagger to its unsteady feet. ‘Come on,’ he says to his companion, ‘let’s go. Stupid bitch!’ he spits, and Tilda can’t be sure if he is addressing the dog or her. The poor animal glances back as it is dragged away. It is still bleeding from the kick to its mouth, and also has a pronounced limp. The sight of its suffering is too much for Tilda.

‘Wait!’ she calls after them. ‘If you don’t want the dog, I’ll have it.’

The men pause and turn. ‘What do you want with it? Why should we give it to you?’

‘You’ve just said it’s useless at … hunting. Must cost a lot, feeding a dog like that. I’ll take it off your hands.’

‘Oh yeah? How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much are you gonna give us for her? She’s from a good line. They cost money, you know, working lurchers.’

‘Even useless ones?’

Both men scowl and begin to walk off. Tilda trots after them and catches up with the tall one holding the lead. She instinctively puts her hand on his arm.