Our days were made the more enjoyable by the presence of Scatha’s lovely daughters: three of the most beautiful young women ever to flower beneath fair heaven: Gwenllian, Govan, and Goewyn. They arrived on Ynys Sci with the ship which bore away the homebound students. They had returned to spend the long, somber Sollen season with their mother, each having served in the court of a king as Banfáith, or prophetess.
Fortunate the king who could boast a Banfáith; king among kings was he who retained one of Scatha’s daughters for his court. None of them was married—not that it was prevented them—they rather chose loyalty to their demanding gifts. For on the day each gave herself in marriage she would cease to be a prophetess. A Banfáith was exalted among her kind. Like bards they could sing and play the harp, and like bards they were able counselors. But they also possessed an older, more mysterious power: the ability to search the woven pathways of the future to see what will be and to speak to the people in the voice of the Dagda.
They adorned the dank cold days with charm bright and warm, softening the generally savage tone of our military existence with feminine grace. Which was part of Scatha’s education too. For a warrior must also master the intricacies of court etiquette and comportment in civilized society. This is why the older pupils stay. The final Sollen or two before a warrior completes Scatha’s instruction, he is tutored in the gentler arts by Scatha’s daughters.
Scatha’s daughters, wise as they were beautiful, lavished affection on us all. It was the sweetest of pleasures merely to be included in the shining circle of their company. The long days in the hall were filled with enjoyable activities. I learned something of harp playing from Gwenllian, and spent many happy days drawing on tablets of wax with Govan; but my preference was playing gwyddbwyll with Goewyn.
What can I say of Scatha’s daughters? That they were more beautiful to me than the fairest summer day, more graceful than the lithe deer frisking in the high mountain meadows, more enchanting than the green-shadowed valleys of Sci, that each was fetching, fascinating, winsome, entrancing.
There was Goewyn: her long hair, softly flaxen, plaited like her mother’s in dozens of tiny braids, an exquisitely crafted golden bell at the end of each braid. When she moved, it was to a fine music. Her smooth, regal brow and fine, straight nose proclaimed nobility; her generous mouth with lips perpetually curved in a secret smile intimated a veiled sensuality; her brown eyes seemed always to hold a hint of laughter, as if all that passed before them existed solely for her private amusement. I very soon came to view our times together, head to head over the square wooden game board balanced on our knees, as a gift from a wildly benevolent Creator.
And Govan: with her ready laugh and subtle wit, and blue eyes, like her mother’s, quick beneath dark lashes. Her hair was tawny and her skin dark, like a sun-browned berry; her body was well-knit, strong and expressive, the body of a dancer. On those few days when the sun lit the sky with its short-lived splendor—a radiance made all the more brilliant for its brevity—Govan and I would ride along the beach below the caer. The fresh wind stung our cheeks and spattered our cloaks with the ocean’s spume; the horses splashed through the surf, rolling white on the black shingle. And we raced: she on a gray mare swift as a diving gull, I on a fleet red roan flying over the tumbled rocks and storm wrack until we were breathless.
We would ride to the far end of the bay where the great rocks of the cliff had collapsed into the sea. Then we would turn and thunder to the opposite headland, there to dismount and rest our horses. Their lathered flanks steamed in the chill air, and we trod the sea-slick stones, our lungs burning from the raw salt air. I felt the blood hot in my veins, the wind cold on my skin, Govan’s ready hand in mine, and I knew myself to be alive under the Dagda’s quickening touch.
The Dagda, the Good God they also called the Swift Sure Hand, for the infinite breadth of his creative feats and his ever-ardent power to sustain all that he touched. I learned of the enigmatic Celtic deity—and many another in the pantheon—from Gwenllian, who, in addition to serving as Banfáith to King Macrimhe of the Mertani, was also a Banfilidh—a female Filidh, or harper.
Gwenllian: beguiling with her dusky red hair and sparkling emerald eyes; bewitching, her skin like milk, and her cheeks and lips blushing red as if tinted with foxglove; graceful in every line from the bend of her neck to the curve of her foot. Each night Gwenllian wove the shimmering magic of the harp with her skilled fingers and sang the ageless songs of Albion: of Llyr and his sorry children, of inconstant Blodeuedd and her vile treachery, of Pwyll and his beloved Rhiannon, of fair Arianrhod, and mysterious Mathonwy, and Bran the Blessed, and Manawyddan, and Gwydion, and Pryderi, and Dylan, Epona, Don . . . and all the rest.
She sang their loves and hates, their strivings and peacemakings, their glorious feats and pathetic failures, their wisdom and folly, their wondrous lives and miserable deaths, their towering great goodness and their shocking evil, their mercies and cruelties and triumphs and defeats, and the eternal verity of the endless cycle of their lives. She sang, and the length, breadth, height, and depth of human life passed before me. When Gwenllian sang, I knew what it was to be human.
Each night after our meal we would fill our mead cups and gather around the flame-bright hearth to hear Gwenllian’s song. She would sing, and time would take wing. Sometimes I would shake myself from reverie to see the dawn, rose-fingered, lifting the edge of night’s black cloak in the east, my head filled with burning images, and the mead in my cup untouched.
To hear Gwenllian sing was to enter a waking dream of such power that time and the elements faded away. To hear that flawless voice lifted in song was to feel enchantment as a physical force. When Gwenllian sang, Gwenllian became the song. When Gwenllian sang, those who heard tasted of a higher life.
I could have lived the rest of my days listening to her, never tiring, never stirring for want of food or drink; her song was all the nourishment I needed.
This, then, was the pattern of my life on Scatha’s island realm. As Llyd, I learned the warrior’s art, toiling with dogged determination to master the craft of swordthrust and spear-throw, knife-feat and shield-skill. The hilt shaped my hand until sword and arm were one; the shaft of my spear became my faithful, unerring servant; my knife and shield grew no less intimate a part of me than teeth and nails. Gradually, painfully, my body honed itself to the strict authority of battle. I grew lean as leather and hard as the handle of my spear.
I labored long. Defeat taught me cunning; failure taught me resourcefulness. I became resolute, and my fear shrank away. I became relentless, and courage was born. I lived the life of a warrior, and a warrior I became. I strove until every nerve and every sinew, each bone, organ, limb, and tendon performed with fearful precision the warrior’s art. And in time I won the icy detachment of the warrior who is free from either anger or fear, whose movements are purest joy, and for whom each blood contest is an exultation of skill.
Six years I labored. Six years of sweat and strain and struggle. Six years of friendly strife. Six years of Gyd’s fair sun and Sollen’s cold. Six years, Beltain to Samhain, and in the end I was not least among my companions.
The seventh year progressed like the others in most respects. But rarely a moment passed when I was not acutely aware that my time on Ynys Sci was coming to an end: soon I would return to Prydain to serve the Great King Meldryn Mawr. I counted the days and dreaded each day’s ending—for it brought me that much nearer my time of leaving.
I did not want to leave the island: never again to enjoy Goewyn’s gentle company, never again to ride with Govan, to hear Gwenllian’s song no more. I could not bear that thought. The sisters had grown dearer to me than my own heart; I would sooner pluck it warm and beating out of my breast than leave them.
Yet, what could I do? My departure was ordained from the beginning. I would leave when the ship arrived in the spring.
But there was another reason for my dread. In returning to Meldryn’s court, I would re
turn also to Simon—and thus to my long-neglected task: we must return to the world whence we had come. The very thought filled me with despair. I wanted to go back to the manifest world no more than Simon. I understood him now. On Ynys Sci the ties which bound me to my own world had worn thin and fallen away. I did not feel them go; it was more an innocent forgetting. With each passing day, the manifest world had grown a little less real, a little less vivid, until it seemed a ghost world filled with gray vapors and shadowy existences. I, too, wanted to stay in the Otherworld—no matter what the cost.
At the end of the seventh year, Tegid came for me.
One chill morning I stood on the rock bluff overlooking the bay and watched the ship move slowly closer. I felt a pang of bitter regret that the ship which brought Scatha’s daughters back to the island once more would bear me away in the spring—in Gyd, when Sollen’s icy storms had ceased.
Through three unending seasons I had endured the harsh exile of their absence. Now they returned, and I was eager to greet them.
I climbed into the saddle and urged my horse down the switchback trail from the bluff to the strand, to await the ship. More than a few of the younger pupils were already gathered on the beach, eager for the ship to make landfall—to set sail for home once more. They sorely missed clan and kin; I could see the homecraving in their eyes. And I wondered if they could see the hopeless desire in mine.
Slowly the ship drew closer; each wave that dashed against the shore seemed to bring the square-sailed vessel nearer. Soon I could make out the comely forms of Scatha’s daughters at the bow. I could see Goewyn, hand raised in greeting, her smile welcoming; Govan, laughing; and Gwenllian, her hair blowing in the sea breeze. And then . . . then I was standing in water surging around my knees, helping to pull the ship onto the strand, and reaching up to help the first of them down. Goewyn took my hands and came into my arms, kissing me, her breath sweet and warm against my neck.
Govan, too, greeted me with a kiss. “I have missed you, Llyd,” she said lightly. And then, holding me at arm’s length away from her, “Let me look at you.”
I gripped her hands tightly as she swung around me. “I have not changed,” I told her. “Except that my hunger for you has grown with each day we have been apart.”
“Rascal!” she laughed, delighted, and kissed me again.
Govan spun away, and, as she moved toward the strand, I saw Tegid striding through the swirling surf, his oaken staff raised high. “Now I know they have made a warrior of you,” he called.
“Tegid!” I shouted. “Tegid, is that really you?”
“The same,” he said. He came to me and clasped me by my arms in the greeting of kinsmen. “And I find a much different man from the one I left. Meldryn Mawr will be pleased when I present you before him.”
Though he meant it as a compliment, his words gave me to understand why he had come. Elation at seeing my friend quickly faded. I swallowed hard. “When?” I asked, hoping against hope that we still might winter on the island.
“Tonight,” Tegid answered. “We will leave with the tide. I am sorry.”
Although the day was bright, I felt Sollen’s desolation in my soul. The sun’s warmth died in the melancholy of my leaving. I felt as if my most treasured possession had been stolen from me. On Scatha’s island I had lived as I had never lived before. In the hard discipline of the warrior, I had learned what it was to be alive. Now it was over, and I felt as if my life—the only life I had ever valued—was over too.
“I would like nothing better than to winter here myself,” Tegid told me. “But come, say your farewells. I will see to your things.”
Those who had completed Scatha’s tutelage must make formal request to leave. If, in Scatha’s opinion, the warrior had mastered all that she deemed him capable of learning, the Pen-y-Cat would present him with his arms. Ordinarily it was a glad ceremony, but my heart was not in it. I did not want to leave.
Yet we made our way up to the caer and to the hall, where several of my fellow warriors were already gathering to entreat their leavetaking, Cynan foremost among them. He hailed me as we approached.
“Llyd! We are to go together, hey?” His ruddy face beamed with pleasure. He had worked long and hard for this day and could scarcely believe that it had come at last. “The ship is early this year. They are saying that there is trouble in Albion and we may be needed.” He observed the glum expression on my face. “What is the matter with you?”
“I had hoped to stay a little longer,” I replied, my voice bitter and low.
Friends though we were, Cynan could not understand the reason for my misery. “We will be battle chiefs! There is honor to be won, brother. Perhaps we will ride before winter! Meldryn Mawr is a great king; you will win much gold in his service. You will see.”
Just then, the oxhide covering at the door was drawn aside, and Cynan was invited to enter. He ducked his head and stepped through. In the six years of our exile he had grown both confident and carefree. No longer a youth who must prove himself to the watching world, Cynan had become secure in his skill and settled in himself. He had gained some measure of peace from his father’s awful, impossible demand for perfection. I liked to think I had helped him in this. Above all else, Cynan and I had become swordbrothers—a bond stronger than death and to be trusted above all others.
I did not care to wait with the others, so I walked a while around the caer, visiting for the last time the places I had come to know so well, lingering on the empty practice field which had absorbed so much of my sweat and blood.
Goewyn found me and wished me well, saying, “I will miss playing gwyddbwyll with you. You have become a worthy opponent.”
“And it is you I will miss, Goewyn,” I told her, hoping for a word of comfort.
She smiled but shook her fair head, setting the tiny bells jingling lightly. “Less than you imagine, of that I am certain. You have never wintered with the Great King. A glance from the maidens in Sycharth and you will forget you ever knew me.”
“Yet I would have some remembrance of you.”
“What would you have?” she asked, her lips curving in a sly smile.
I said the first thing that came into my mind. “A braid of your golden hair.”
Goewyn laughed. “Take it then, if you will.”
She stood before me, smiling, hands on hips while I cut off the end of a braid with my knife. Then she took it from me and wound the severed end with a bit of lavender thread pulled from the hem of her cloak so that the plait of hair would not unravel. “Come,” she said, tucking the keepsake into my belt, “it is time for you to take your leave.”
Drawing my arm through hers, Goewyn led me back up the stone-marked path to the round hut where Scatha received those who were sent to her and, their tutelage completed, dispatched them to their destiny. She drew aside the black oxhide covering and indicated that I should enter alone. I stooped low and stepped in. The room was dark, lit only by the sultry light of two iron braziers—one on either side of the three-legged camp chair on which the War Leader sat.
Scatha was wrapped in a scarlet cloak trimmed in gold and green, and fastened at her right shoulder with an enormous brooch of fine red gold and the glittering green fire of emeralds. On her head she wore a costly helm of burnished bronze, inlaid with gold and silver tracery; her unbound tresses spilled out from beneath her war cap to fall over her shoulders. Golden bracelets and armbands gleamed upon each wrist and arm—the gifts of grateful kings and princes whom she had served. Behind her, their shafts driven into the earth, were two silver-bladed spears, crossed shafts bound with a golden cord. Her feet were bare and resting upon a great round oxhide shield with a boss and rim of bronze engraved with the sea-wave spiral.
Gwenllian stood to one side in the shadows. She acknowledged me with a raised eyebrow when I glanced her way, but said nothing. I approached our beautiful Pen-y-Cat, touching the back of my hand to my forehead in the sign of reverence and respect.
“Why do you
come here?” Scatha asked simply, beginning the ritual I had come to know well.
I replied, “I come here to request a boon, War Leader.”
She nodded. “What boon would you have, son of mine?”
“I would have the boon of your blessing to go from your heart.” The words clawed and nearly stuck in my throat.
“Where would you go, my son?” she asked gently, as a true mother might when looking upon her son for the last time.
“I would return to the hearth of my king, War Leader. For I am bound to serve him and swear fealty to him who succors me.”
“If you would live as a warrior in a king’s hall and bind your life to a king, you must first bind your heart to those who will serve you.”
“Tell me who they are,” I replied, “and I will do what may be done to bind heart and life to them that serve me.”
At this, Scatha lifted a hand to Gwenllian, who stepped quickly to her side. I saw that she carried a sword in her left hand and a spear in her right. She placed the sword across Scatha’s outstretched palms. Turning, Scatha held the sword out to me, saying, “Here is a Son of Earth, whose spirit was kindled in the heat of fire. Do take him, my son, and keep him always at your side.”
With my right hand I reached out and gripped the naked blade and clasped it to my breast, the hilt over my heart. “I do take this one to serve me, Pen-y-Cat.”
The War Leader inclined her head, turned to receive the spear from Gwenllian’s hand, and said, “Here is a Son of Air, whose spirit was awakened in the darkness of the grove. Do take him, my son, and keep him always at your side.”
With my left hand I reached out and gripped the ashwood shaft and held it close against me, saying, “I do take this one to serve me, Pen-y-Cat.”
Scatha raised her hands, palms outward, as if in benediction. “Go your way, son of mine. You have the blessing you seek.”
The Paradise War Page 21
