The dog answers with a low growl, curling up her lip to show her fine, sharp teeth.
‘Okay,’ he says, backing away, ‘I’ll take that as a no.’
‘Thistle! What’s got into you?’ Tilda goes over to the dog and gently but firmly takes the object from her mouth. She is relieved to find her dog does not growl at her and even beats her tail against the dusty cushion as she relinquishes her find.
Tilda takes the thing back to the table and studies it by the light of the window. ‘You’re right, it’s not a stick.’
‘What then, a bone, perhaps?’
‘Yuck, no, thank heavens. It’s metal of some sort. Wait a minute.’ She goes to the sink and turns on the tap, holding the curved object under the running water, rubbing with her thumbs to get the soil and grit off the thing. ‘I think it’s a bracelet!’ she tells Dylan, who has left his breakfast and come to stand behind her to watch. ‘Yes, look, it’s brass, or bronze, or something. It’s not a complete circle; it’s open, and there’s a pattern worked into the metal … looks like…’ Tilda stops, her breath catching in her throat. Suddenly she can hear her pulse pounding in her ears.
‘What is it?’ Dylan asks. ‘Tilda?’
But she has gone, running, to the studio. He follows. Once inside, Tilda hurries over to her pots, the ones she has been working on all these weeks, the ones she has shaped and reshaped and carved and molded and coaxed into being. She rips off the plastic that has been wrapping them up, keeping them moist to avoid cracking while they wait for their first firing. She turns the nearest pot, the biggest and the most successful, so that it is facing the light of the patio doors. Her hand is trembling as she holds the bracelet alongside it.
Now it is Dylan’s turn to gasp.
On Thistle’s find, intricately and beautifully carved, is a singularly exquisite Celtic design, showing two leaping hares and a running hound. The limbs of the animals meld and intertwine in a highly stylized and complex pattern, so that where one ends, the next begins and where that one ends, so the next begins, round and round in a never-ending chase. On Tilda’s pot, larger and clearer, is, twist for twist, curve for curve, exactly the same design, right down to the rolling eye of the racing hound.
11
TILDA
As the Landrover slithers down the snowy road, Tilda is too distracted to be concerned about car crashes or flashbacks, though Dylan had sweetly checked that she was okay about getting in the vehicle again before they set off. The discovery that her own design matches exactly that of something dug from the earth beside the lake has shaken her. She and Dylan both tried to reason it out—common Celtic motifs, Tilda has a dog and recently saw a hare, both animals could have been found in the area anytime over the last several centuries. Perhaps it is just that Tilda has tapped into the language of the art of the place. Perhaps she simply saw an illustration of an ancient image somewhere and the similarities beyond that are born of coincidence. Or perhaps they are not. She cannot shake off the feeling that there is something more, some deeper connection between herself and whatever it is Thistle found.
One thing she and Dylan instantly agreed on was that the man to help was Professor Williams. Tilda had hurriedly put in her contact lenses while Dylan adjusted the stoves to work gently, before they jumped into the Landrover, which, for all its great age and shabbiness, is perfect for negotiating the snow-covered slopes.
They find the professor clearing his garden path, shoveling snow and grit with surprising vigor for a man of his years. He greets them warmly and takes them indoors. Dylan and Tilda both talk over one another in their excitement, not letting up even as they take off their boots and he leads them into the sitting room, so that eventually he has to hold up his hands.
‘I’m sorry, but all this clamoring is impossible to make sense of. Now, I suggest one of you take a deep breath and slowly tell me what this is all about. Whilst the other remains silent,’ he adds quickly.
Tilda steps forward and holds out the bracelet.
‘Thistle dug this up by the lake,’ she tells him.
Professor Williams takes it from her, snatching up his reading glasses from the coffee table and setting them on his nose. He peers at the curious object, turning it over and over in his hands. Next, he abandons his glasses and from a desk drawer finds a photographer’s loop, the lens of which will allow much greater magnification. He presses the device to his eye, holding the bracelet beneath a standard lamp. Which instantly goes out, as do all the other lights in the house.
‘Damn!’ says Tilda.
‘That’s curious.’ The professor looks up. ‘It’s possible the snow has affected the power supply. Dylan, would you be so good as to check the fuse box for me, please?’