The Silver Witch(79)
‘You see them too?’
Remembering something about magic-eye pictures requiring the viewer to half close their eyes, Tilda tries this technique, but still the objects are blurred and malformed. She blinks and then, instinctively, shuts her eyes once more.
‘Oh!’ She cannot help exclaiming aloud, for with her lids tightly closed she is able to see the apparitions clearly. They are no longer fleeting glimpses of something, but clearly defined, and brilliantly colored. There are two hares, their eyes bright and fur dense and luxuriant. Birds swoop and soar—she counts two owls and a hawk before becoming distracted by a white horse. It gallops across the hectic scene, riderless, mane flowing, silent hooves pounding the insubstantial ground. She tries to follow it, turning, but senses it is passing beyond her reach. She cannot stop herself opening her eyes, at which point the horse fades to a mere shadow. She shuts her eyes again quickly but the horse has vanished.
Damn! I should have known.
She is entirely lost in the beauty and wonder of what she is seeing, as the hares and the birds continue to dance and fly. Only gradually does she become aware of the ringing noise again, growing steadily stronger. And as it does so it alters, shifting in both pitch and tone. Soon it is no longer bell-like but an eerie wail, distant and distorted by a flat echo.
Like the singing of a mermaid! Or whale song!
The volume of the sound increases, and as it does so the vision changes. Gone is the light. The woodland creatures disappear, to be replaced by deepening darkness and a sense of plummeting that makes Tilda feel both dizzy and a little sick. She forces herself to stay with whatever is happening, to follow where she is being taken. The bracelet on her arm is getting hotter again. The strange sound is so loud now she instinctively puts her hands over her ears.
And then she sees it.
Huge and heavy and ancient beyond memory, powering up toward her through the darkness. Its skin has an iridescent sheen—blue, green, purple all at one time. It moves incredibly swiftly for something so enormous, its graceful neck stretched forward as it scythes through the gloom. It has a noble head, with a wide brow and huge eyes, shining and fathomless, deep set and ink-black. Tilda looks into those eyes and knows—just knows—that as clearly as she sees this magnificent creature, as surely, she herself is being seen. As the mysterious beast swoops upward and over her, Tilda fears she will be knocked down by it, crushed and broken, so that she opens her eyes, stepping backward, falling to the floor. The room is filled with swirling colors, but beyond this there are no more apparitions. The creature is not there. Tilda scrambles to her feet, putting her left hand over the bracelet so that she can hold it in place, but also so that she might pluck it off quickly if she needs to. But the vision is fading. The curious cry of the fabulous being she has just encountered weakens and dies away, as if the fantastic beast were traveling at great speed, singing all the while. Tilda stands for several minutes as everything around her returns to a more normal, everyday shape and state. Dawn is nudging its way above the hills outside, and shedding a weak daytime light through the small window. It is some time before Tilda feels ready to slip the bracelet off her arm. She finds she is both exhausted and exhilarated. Gently, she sets the precious band down on the table. Thistle has decided the excitement is over and climbs back onto the duvet. Tilda rubs her chilly arms, fighting an overwhelming fatigue, as she climbs back under the duvet, snuggling close to the dog, falling quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next morning when Tilda goes outside the coldness of the air and the beauty of the countryside take her breath away. There has been no further fall of snow, but the mountain has snagged a passing cloud, which has paused long enough to coat every gatepost, branch, twig and leaf in its vapor. And that mist has since frozen. Tilda has never seen anything so enchanting. Wherever she looks there are ice crystals, pure and sharp and delicate, frozen to every surface, even the wool of the Welsh mountain sheep as they chomp their hay from the equally frosted feeder in the field next to the cottage. Now a ceiling of high cloud diffuses the sunlight, softening it and removing the color from the sky. The lake itself is covered in a layer of ice that appears from Tilda’s viewpoint to be black. She knows this is an impossibility, and for a few moments is unable to do anything other than stand and stare at the wondrous scenery.
Thistle has no regard for such things, and busies herself following mouse tracks through the snow in the garden. The kiln has cooled completely now, and Tilda suffers a flash of worry that the winter weather will have caused the temperature to drop more suddenly than is good for the ceramics inside the little oven. She places her hand on the frost-topped brickwork. More than just a few pots depend upon the results of the firing. Her future livelihood is at stake, it’s true, but there is something more. Her hopes for these special pieces are linked to all the strangeness of this magical place. To all the curious things, the changes that have been happening to her. Will the designs have the quality, the impact, the strength, that she is praying for? Will she be able to make something of the strange connection she feels to the lake, its past and its people? She has slipped the bracelet into her pocket, feeling a need to keep it close. Taking it out, she holds it up so that the soft morning light picks out the hares and the hound, locked in their eternal chase. She considers putting it on again, but knows that the moment is not right to explore the secrets it holds.