Welsh Folk Tales

by Peter Stevenson

  Guest’s politics influenced her passion for the female characters, and through her translation the myth of Branwen became known far beyond Wales.

  Branwen Ferch Llŷr

  Bendigeidfran fab Llŷr, the giant King of the Island of the Mighty, sat by the sea at Harlech in Ardudwy, with his brother Manawydan and his two half-brothers, Nysien, who could make peace between two armies, and Efnysien, who could cause war between two brothers.

  Bendigeidfran saw thirteen ships approaching from the south of Ireland, sailing swiftly with the wind behind them, flying pennants of silk brocade. One ship drew ahead, a shield raised with its tip pointing upwards as a sign of peace. A voice cried out, ‘Lord, this is Matholwch, King of Ireland, seeking to unite his land with yours by taking your sister Branwen ferch Llŷr, one of the Three Chief Maidens of the Island of the Mighty, as his wife.’

  A council was held at Aberffraw. Great tents were erected, for Bendigeidfran was far too big to fit in a house, and a feast was prepared. Bendigeidfran sat in the middle, Matholwch next to him and Branwen by his side. They ate and drank, and when everyone thought it would be better to sleep than feast, they slept. That night Branwen slept with Matholwch.

  Efnysien had not been told of his sister Branwen’s marriage, and he was furious. He went to the stables and took hold of Matholwch’s horses, cut off their lips to the teeth, their ears flush to their heads, their tails down to their crops, and where he could get hold of their eyelids he cut them to the bone. He maimed those horses till they were worthless. When news reached Matholwch, he was insulted and humiliated, and prepared his ships to sail. Bendigeidfran sent a messenger to explain that he had known nothing of this and he offered gifts as compensation, a new horse for every one maimed, a gold plate as wide as his face, and a silver staff as thick as his little finger and as tall as himself.

  Matholwch returned to Bendigeidfran’s court. A council was held, tents were erected, and they feasted, though Matholwch’s conversation seemed touched with sadness. Bendigeidfran offered him another gift, a Pair Dadeni, a Cauldron of Rebirth, saying, ‘If one of your men is killed in battle, throw him in the cauldron and the following day he will be alive, though unable to speak’.

  Matholwch asked where the cauldron came from. Bendigeidfran explained it had been given to him by an Irishman, Llasar Llais Gyfnewid. Matholwch knew Llasar. ‘I was hunting in Ireland, when this huge red-haired man walked out of a lake with a cauldron strapped to his back. A woman and children followed him, and if he was big, well, she was enormous, as if she was about to give birth to a baby the size of an armed warrior. They stayed at my court, grumbled about everything, and upset everyone. After four months, my people told me to get rid of them, or else they would get rid of me. So I employed every blacksmith in Ireland to build a hall of iron and fill it with charcoal and beer. Llasar and his family followed the smell of the beer. Once they were inside, I locked the door, set fire to the charcoal, and the blacksmiths blew on the bellows till the house was white hot. Llasar drank all the beer, punched a hole through the molten wall and they escaped, taking the cauldron with them.’

  After a night of singing and feasting, Matholwch set sail in thirteen ships for home, taking Branwen and the cauldron with him. In Ireland, Branwen was embraced and offered brooches, rings and jewels. In nine months she gave birth to a son, Gwern, who was taken from his mother and given to foster parents, the finest in Ireland for rearing warriors.

  When Matholwch’s people learned of the cruelty inflicted on his horses, they mocked him, and he knew he would get no peace until he took revenge on the Welsh. So he threw Branwen from his bed, sent her to work in the kitchens, and ordered the butcher to slap her face each day with his bloodied hands. For three years, her only conversation was with a starling who sang to her from the kitchen windowsill. She poured out her heart and wrote a letter to her brother Bendigeidfran telling him of her woes, tied it to the bird’s wing and sent it flying towards Wales.

  The starling found Bendigeidfran at Caer Saint in Arfon. It sat on his shoulders, ruffled its feathers, and sang. When Bendigeidfran heard of his sister’s punishment, he called a council of the warriors of the Island of the Mighty. They came from all one hundred and fifty-four regions, and after feasting, they set sail in ships bound for Ireland. Bendigeidfran, with his harpers at his shoulders, waded through the water, for the sea was not deep and only the width of two rivers, the Lli and Archan.

  The Kings of Ireland’s pig-keepers watched this strange sight approaching over the horizon. They told Matholwch they had seen a mountain covered in trees, with a high ridge and a lake on either side, and the mountain was moving.

  ‘Lady, what is this?’ asked Matholwch.

  ‘I am no Lady,’ said Branwen, ‘but these are the men of the Island of the Mighty. They have heard of my punishment.’

  ‘What are the trees?’

  ‘Masts of ships.’

  ‘What is the mountain?’

  ‘My brother Bendigeidfran, wading through the shallows, for no ship is big enough to hold him.’

  ‘And the ridge and the lake?’

  ‘The ridge is his nose and the lakes are his eyes.’

  Matholwch and the warriors of Ireland retreated over the Shannon, and burned the bridge behind them. When Bendigeidfran and his army reached this strange river, he made a bridge with his own body and his warriors crossed over.

  Matholwch sent a messenger to Bendigeidfran offering compensation for Branwen’s punishment. He offered to make her son, Gwern, King of Ireland. Branwen advised Bendigeidfran to accept, for she had no wish to see her two countries ravaged by war. A council was held, Matholwch built a house bigger than a tent, big enough to hold Bendigeidfran and the men of the Island of the Mighty, and peace broke out.

  But the Irish played a trick. They hammered long nails into every one of the hundred pillars that held up the house, hung a skin bag, a belly, on every nail, and in every belly they hid an armed warrior, two hundred in all. Efnysien entered the house, smelled the air and looked around with eyes blazing. He asked what was in the bellies, and was told, ‘Flour, friend’. He prodded the ‘flour’ until he felt a warrior’s head, and he squeezed it until his fingers cracked the skull into the man’s brains. He placed his hand on another belly, asked what was inside, and the answer came, ‘Flour, friend’. Efnysien squeezed every bag until there was not a man alive. Then he sang in praise of himself.

  Matholwch entered the house, seated himself opposite the men of the Island of the Mighty, and crowned Gwern King of Ireland. Bendigeidfran called the boy to him and mussed his hair, then passed him to Manawydan, until everyone had fussed him. All except Efnysien. Bendigeidfran told the boy to go to his uncle, but Gwern took one look at Efnysien and refused. Efnysien cursed, stood up, took hold of the boy by his feet, and hurled him head first into the fire. Branwen saw her child being burned alive, and leapt towards the fire, but Bendigeidfran held her between his shield and shoulder. All the warriors rose to their feet, drew their weapons, and there was a most terrible slaughter.

  The hall was strewn with the bodies of the Irish dead. They were stripped to the waist and tossed into the Pair Dadeni until the cauldron overflowed. The following morning they crawled out alive, scarred and mute. Soon the hall was strewn with the corpses of the men of the Island of the Mighty. Efnysien saw that he had caused this, and would be shamed if he were not to save his comrades. So he buried himself with the Irish dead, was stripped to the waist, and thrown into the cauldron. He stretched himself across the rim, and pushed until the cauldron shattered into four pieces. Efnysien’s heart shattered too, but his redemption spurred the men of the Island of the Mighty to victory, if victory it was.

  Bendigeidfran was wounded in the foot with a poisoned spear, and only Branwen and seven men escaped, Pryderi, Manawydan, Glifiau, Taliesin, Ynog, Gruddieu and Heilyn. Bendigeidfran ordered his men, ‘Cut off my head, take it to the White Hill in London, and bury it facing France. But first, go to Harlech and feast
for seven years. The birds of Rhiannon will sing to you, and my head will keep you entertained as if I was alive. Then go to Gwales in Pembrokeshire, and look towards Aber Henfelen in Cornwall. Stay for eighty years, I will be with you, then open the door, and bury my weary head in London.’

  So the seven men cut off Bendigeidfran’s head, and sailed with Branwen to the Island of the Mighty. They rested at Aber Alaw on Ynys Môn, and Branwen turned and looked back at Ireland, and cursed the day she had been born. ‘These two good islands destroyed because of me,’ and her heart broke in two, and she was buried there, in a four-sided grave on the banks of the Alaw.

  And the Second Branch of Y Mabinogi nears an end.

  2

  LADIES, LAKES AND LOOKING GLASSES

  The Lady of Llyn y Fan Fach

  On the Black Mountain lived a dreamer, a poet and a romantic named Rhiwallon, whose job was to look after his mother’s cows. One day, he saw a herd of small milk-white cattle grazing on the meadowsweet that grew round the edge of Llyn y Fan Fach, and standing in the water was a girl, plaiting her red hair. He felt an urge to give her a gift, but all he had was his lunch. So he offered her some stale bread. She took one look at the bread, grinned like a Cheshire cat, told him he’d have to try a lot harder than that, rounded up her cows and vanished beneath the water.

  Rhiwallon was entranced. He decided to impress her with softer bread, so he asked his mother for some unbaked dough, and he sat by the lake and waited. The milk-white cattle appeared, followed by the girl, who was nibbling watercress. He offered her the dough, it squelched between her fingers. She stared at him, shook her red head, laughed like a donkey and vanished, cows and all.

  Rhiwallon was entirely enchanted. All he needed was bread that was neither hard nor soft, and she would be his. His mother made him some lightly baked muffins and he sat by the lake and waited. When she appeared he offered her a muffin, which she sniffed, nibbled a little and then gobbled it down. He begged her to be his wife. She looked bemused, wiped the crumbs from her mouth, pulled the pondweed from her hair, and said if she ever received three unfortunate blows in any way other than love, she would leave him forever. He said he would rather sever his hand than strike her, so the marriage was agreed.

  She brought a dowry of milk-white cattle, and counted them out of the water in the old way: ‘un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump’, remove a stone from one pocket and place it in another, ‘un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump’, over and over.

  Time passed. She raised three fine sons, and taught them about the medicinal properties of water and the curative nature of herbs. But she rarely smiled and never laughed; there was a melancholy in her.

  At a christening, she told the mother that the child would die before his fifth birthday. Rhiwallon gripped her arm and told her not to be so miserable, for this was a celebration. She freed herself and told him that was the first unfortunate blow.

  At a wedding, she burst into tears, for she thought the couple were doomed to unhappiness. Rhiwallon held her by the shoulders and told her this was a time to smile. That was the second unfortunate blow.

  At a funeral, she burst out laughing, for her friend was now free of worldly cares. Rhiwallon pushed her out of the church and told her to pull herself together. The third, and final, unfortunate blow.

  She whistled her cattle, the brindled, bold-freckled, spotted, white-speckled, four mottled, the old white faced, the grey Geigen, the white bull, the little black calf suspended on the hook. They followed her over Mynydd Myddfai, even the slaughtered little black calf came alive and galloped after them, and they all leapt into Llyn y Fan Fach and vanished.

  Rhiwallon raised his three sons alone, and they grew into fine young men. One day their mother appeared, and told them they were to use their knowledge of herbs and water to care for others. They developed cures for aches and pains, charms for melancholy and miseries, potions for gloom and despondency, and they became the most famous healers in Wales – the Three Physicians of Myddfai.

  But they never cured their mother, for there was nothing wrong with her.

  The Lady of Llyn y Forwyn

  A farmer from Ferndale fell in love with a young woman who lived beneath Llyn y Forwyn, where she tended her herd of milk-white cattle. He courted her, they were married and lived happily at Rhondda Fechan, and each morning she was heard singing to her cows. A girl at Ysgol Llyn y Forwyn, when asked if she knew the story, said, ‘Yeah, saw her this mornin’ on me way to school. She was singin’.’ The lake is now surrounded by a housing estate, and a wooden statue of the lady was charred by fire a few years ago, when arson was popular with the valley boys.

  The Fairy Cattle of Llyn Barfog

  One morning in late summer, a cattle farmer from Cwm Dyffryn Gwyn was standing on the hill above Llyn Barfog when he saw a gwraig annwn, a lady of the Otherworld. She was dressed in green, with ivy and holly berries in her hair, and rouge smeared on her lips. She was tending a herd of small milk-white cattle who were grazing on the meadowsweet that grew by the side of the lake. The farmer desired one of these milk-whites, so he caught a small one and tethered it in his farmyard. He barely noticed the lady.

  The little cow was eager to please, and gave the finest, foamiest, frothiest milk, cream and cheese. She flirted with the Welsh Blacks and soon the farmer had the sturdiest herd of breeding cattle, and he became the richest man in Meirionnydd. But his wealth drove him mad. As the fairy cow grew old, instead of putting her out to pasture, he fattened her for slaughter. Killing Day came and the butcher raised his knife. There was a shriek and the butcher’s arm froze in mid-air. The lady appeared from the lake, dripping with slime and pondweed, and whistled for her little cow to come home.

  The cow ran to her mistress, leapt into Llyn Barfog, and where she touched the water, a white water lily grew. All her children, Welsh Blacks and milk-whites alike, followed their mother into the depths and soon the whole lake was covered in white water lilies, as it is to this very day.

  And the rich farmer was a poorer man for the rest of his days.

  The Red-Haired Lady of Llyn Eiddwen

  There I was, sat drawing by Llyn Eiddwen on Mynydd Bach, when a farmer with short bottle-red hair, a ruddy outdoor face, big smile and an even bigger baggy multi-coloured jumper and little black leggings, sat down next to me, and asked, ‘What you doin’, love?’ and offered me a fairy cake.

  Now, I had been warned not to speak to any strange red-haired women on Mynydd Bach, as one is known to live in the lake where she tends her herd of snow-white cattle who paddle in the shallows at dusk. The lake was the site of rave parties in the late 1800s when a wealthy young man, Mark Tredwell, built a castle on the island, and kept a private army of boys mounted on Shetland ponies. In 1819, Augustus Brackenbury, a gentleman from Lincolnshire, bought the commons around Llyn Eiddwen to build another castle. The boys of Trefenter, thinking Brackenbury had no right to buy the commonly owned land where they dug their peat, dressed themselves as women and demolished the castle in one night. The battle over land rights and enclosures lasted ten years, and is known as the War of the Little Englishman.

  Another Lady lived just down the valley in Llyn Fanod, and a beautiful creature once walked out of nearby Llyn Farch, only to be shot for the pot by a local farmer. There were more Ladies at Llyn Syfaddan, Llyn y Morwynion, Felin Wern Millpond, Llyn Du’r Ardu, Llyn Dwythwch, Llyn Corwrion, Llyn Coch, the Pool of Avarice at Twmbarlwm, the Taff Whirlpool, and more. They are voices from the past, visible in the reflections in the water, memories of those who lived there before valleys flooded.

  I told these stories to the red-haired farmer and asked if she had ever seen the red-haired Lady of the Lake. She bellowed with laughter, and said that no lady could ever live in Llyn Eiddwen. ‘It’s full of leeches. She’d be eaten alive.’ Then she told me tales of encounters she had when she was a girl with the tylwyth teg, corpse candles, and fairy funerals. And off she went down the lane, singing.

  Well, I reckon I met the red-haired la
dy that day. And I have a stale fairy cake to prove it.

  Dreams and Memories

  A young servant from Nannau was in love with the dairymaid at Dol-y-Clochydd. One dark night, he was on his way to propose to her when he fell into Llyn Cynwch near Dolgellau and sank to the bottom. He found himself in a beautiful garden full of flowers and herbs that surrounded a marble palace. He knocked on the door and was greeted by the King of the Fairies. The King recognised him as a lost lover, so he led the servant along a tunnel to a slate door. The servant stepped through the door and found himself in the kitchen at Dol-y-clochydd, where the dairymaid was sat by the hearth weeping because her lover had been missing for months and she thought him drowned. They embraced, she kissed him on the lips, and the King closed the door.

  In 1936, the writer T.P. Ellis, who told this story, wrote, ‘I asked one of the shareholders of the local water company if he knew what was at the bottom of Llyn Cynwch, and with a brain-wave of super-realistic rationalism, he said, “Yes, mud”.’

  3

  SUBMERGED CITIES, LOST WORLDS AND UTOPIAS

  Plant Rhys Ddwfn

  In Cardigan Bay, between Pen Llŷn and Pembroke, was once a fabled land of forests and villages. The people were fair and handsome, though small. They cared for the land as if it was their own, but never once believed they owned it. They planted forests where they hunted and foraged, and always left offerings in exchange for anything they took. This was the land of Plant Rhys Ddwfn, the Children of Rhys the Deep – not deep below the sea, Rhys was a thinker, a philosopher. He planted herbs that hid his land from the prying eyes of the mainlanders. Only if you stood on the one small clump of this herb that grew on the mainland would you see Rhys’s world, and if you stepped away you would forget how to see it again. No one on the mainland knew where this piece of turf grew, so no one saw Rhys’ land. All they saw was rain.