You are a self-pitying fool, Tilda Fordwells. Get up, girl. Get up and get on!
She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands up, allowing herself two deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. Thistle is peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. Immediately, Tilda is swamped by pity for the dog. Slowly she moves close to the scruffy hound, crouching beside it, stroking the animal’s head and ears gently.
‘I’m sorry. You poor old thing. And your mouth is still bleeding. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on the stove, make me a cup of tea and you some warm water so I can bathe your face. Then we’ll phone an electrician. The cell phone might not work up here, but at least the landline does. Upside of keeping the old telephones that don’t need to be plugged in to the main power supply. What d’you say, sound like a good idea? Might even be a biscuit or two to go with the tea. You could help me with those.’
Thistle replies with a feeble but friendly wagging of her tail, the movement sending up little clouds of dust to swirl and dance in the narrow beam of sunlight that falls through the window.
‘Who needs electric lights anyhow, eh? Not me. And certainly not you,’ Tilda decides, noticing how soothing the feel of the dog’s fur is beneath her fingers. She sets about her tasks and begins to achieve the sense of calm that comes from gently restoring order; from attending to the small details of life that ease the passage of time. When at last the dog is tended to and settled and the electrician called, she slips out of the house and into her ceramics studio.
SEREN
The sun has gone to sleep and left shadow-making to the torches that burn bright in the still of the evening. From where I sit, at the entrance to my small lakeside house, I have an unbroken view of the crannog. The small island sits upon the water as if held there by magic, floating, the weight of the hall and the other buildings apparently supported by some unknown glamor. In truth, it is a solid thing. It was not magic that brought it into being but hard labor, sweat, and toil. It is not suspended at all, but sits stoutly on layers of rock and wood, hauled into place over many months, constructed to the design of clever, ambitious men.
Many more torches than is customary are lit tonight, the better to show the way to the gathering in the long hall. And the better to show off the finery of those who will attend. How people snatch at the chance to parade in their expensive garments and gaudy jewels. They pretend to hurry to their prince’s side, to show their support, to listen to his every word. In truth their loyalty is not as great as their vanity. And is not the crannog itself a display of pride? That man can make an island! Not content to build his hall and smithy and houses on the shore, he must construct his own isle, must sit atop the water, as if he has conquered the elements so that he alone is able to float his impossibly heavy buildings above the eels and fishes. As if his feet are too tender, too royal, to set upon the gritty earth.
The lake itself is quiet tonight. The trifling events of those who dwell within its reach do not trouble it. A wind might stir its surface into jagged waves. A freezing might glaze it with bitter ice. The sun on a summer morn might lift from it a mist. But man’s splashings and flailings are fleeting disturbances only. Prince Brynach considers himself ruler of his own land, and that may be so, but he no more rules the water of the lake than the stars in the sky or the thunder in the clouds. No matter how many crannogs he builds.
They are hurrying to the gathering now, eager to take the best seats, close enough to the fire to be illuminated, to be seen, but not so close as to suffer the choking smoke more than they must. They will greet one another warmly, but those smiles will slip to sneers behind turned backs. The prince has his royal home, his floating palace, and it attracts the ambitious like so many moths to a flame. It is his own fault that he is surrounded by men who would as readily fight with him as for him. He is a good prince, with good intentions, but unwilling to see the truth sometimes. He has eyes to melt your heart, peat-dark and flecked with gold, and steady in their gaze, but he cannot see the treachery before him. It falls to me to show him.
I take my time. Let them bluster and settle. I have no interest in observing pleasantries. The night is cooling and I am glad of my wolfskin cloak and headdress. My appearance among the prince’s people always causes unease. The sight of me reminds them of things they do not understand. Of things they fear, and yet need. But tonight I must present myself not merely as Seren the Seer, Seren who lives apart. Who lives alone. This night I must stand before my prince and make him hear me. Make them all hear me. I am Seren Arianaidd. Seren who calls the Afanc. Seren the Prophet. Seren the Witch. My pale hair beneath my wolf’s mask headdress is braided with bright green reeds from the banks of the lake. Under the fine animal skin I am naked except for my short woolen tunic and my leather armor, the silver at my throat and wrists, and the pictures on my flesh. My feet are bare, though my steps ring to the sound of bangles of bone and shell at my ankles. My blade is at my waist. I have painted my eyes so that their glasslike lightness is particularly striking, and I have studded my brow and cheeks with beetle wings. Wings that will flutter and shine beneath the glow of the fire as I move around it. They will look at me and be afraid. And that fear will make them listen. Before I leave the sanctuary of my little home, I step into the lake, let it gently lap my feet. I need the calmness of the water if I am not to be riled beyond endurance. This is not a moment to let my temper steer me. When my mother was schooling me in the ways of the shaman and the skill of the witch, how often she would chide me for my want of control.