The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  Guénolé was troubled when he heard this, for Gwezenneg had been a Christian king and unworthy to have committed such a slaughter.

  “Did Gradlon seek vengeance for the deed?”

  Gwion shook his head.

  “No; he sent his ambassadors to Gwezenneg, asking for reparation and was refused. Each year, at the festival of Imbolc, he sent his ambassadors and they came back from Vannes empty-handed. His daughter, Dahud-Ahes, whose beauty is renowned in the west, and who, it is said, is a mighty Druidess, demanded that her father take his army and seize that which Gwezenneg refused to give. Gradlon is a wise and worthy king and refused to lower himself to the actions of Gwezenneg.”

  Guénolé was pleased then, for he knew that Gradlon was such a king as he could convert to the true faith. But he was worried when he heard about Dahud-Ahes.

  On the next morning, he set out for the west and Ker-Ys. The further west he went, the more forbidding the country became, with bare heathland and no trees but scrubland, and little stone walls here and there, as a means of enclosing the scanty crops which grew. There came a long narrow spur of land, torn by waves on either side, overlooking the sea from a height of two hundred feet, and this was prolonged seaward into a chain of reefs. Then, to the north, there was a low green plain, protected from the sea by a long high dyke, which stretched between the Pointe du Raz and the Pointe du Van for, as we have said, this area was once land.

  The great dyke had built into it two massive gates, which acted in the manner of a lock, and no one could open these gates, for they would flood the city. The gates were secured by a massive padlock, to which there was but one golden key, which Gradlon carried on a chain around his neck.

  Guénolé rode up to the gates of Ker-Ys and demanded entrance and access to Gradlon. Gradlon readily admitted the man and listened to all he had to say.

  “There is much that is true in what you say,” Gradlon conceded, after a while. “I would learn more.”

  “I would not!” rang out a voice.

  A most beautiful woman entered the hall and, from the way the attendants bowed low, Guénolé knew he was in the presence of Dahud-Ahes, daughter of Gradlon. As his disciple, Gwion, had said, she was a mighty Druidess.

  Then Guénolé peered closer. “Are you not known as Whirlwind?” he demanded.

  Dahud-Ahes smiled condescendingly. “What do you think?” she parried.

  Guénolé gasped. “Yes, by the Living God. You are Aveldro, who caused the death of Gwezenneg!”

  Dahud-Ahes stood without shame. “It was my right to take vengeance. Did not this Gwezenneg take the life of my mother, Dieub, and my brother Youlek? And did he not slaughter all my mother’s family?”

  “Yet you took his life by sorcery,” breathed Guénolé, genuflecting.

  “I took his life, as he took the lives of my kin,” affirmed Dahud-Ahes.

  Gradlon hung his head in shame. “What you have done is not justice, daughter. Vengeance is not reparation.”

  “Vengeance satisfies the soul,” replied Dahud-Ahes. “My soul is at peace.”

  “We are born bound to the great wheel of life, Dahud-Ahes,” warned Guénolé. “There is no action without a consequence. Just as Gwezenneg has paid for his action, so must you pay for your action.” He turned to Gradlon. “King, I feel that you wish to reach out for the truth of the Living God. When the time comes, you will find me at the city of Kemper.”

  So he left the court of Gradlon.

  That evening, Dahud-Ahes was in her bedchamber when, without warning, a young man of surpassing handsomeness entered. He was so handsome that Dahud-Ahes found herself trembling from her desire of him.

  “You are no mortal man,” she murmured.

  “I am Maponos, the god of love,” he replied with a smile. “And of all the women on the earth, I have heard that you were the most beautiful. Now I have seen the truth of it with my own eyes. And I desire you. Come away with me and dwell with me in the palace of love, which is far to the west of this place.”

  Dahud-Ahes lost all her rationality. Indeed, as Gwezenneg had fallen under her spell, she fell under the spell of this young man. “I will,” she replied with vehemence.

  Then the handsome Maponos hesitated. “I have admitted my love for you. But, before we go to my eternal palace, you must prove that you love me. The entrance to my palace is known only to myself and, if you share this secret, I need a token of your love.”

  “I will do anything,” she replied simply.

  “Then fetch the golden key of the gate in the dyke which hangs around your father’s neck. Fetch it and unlock the gates.”

  “But the whole city will drown,” protested Dahud-Ahes.

  “Not so. If you believe in me, I will not let it drown. Am I not a god and cannot I stop such floods? If you desire to live with me in all eternity, then you must do this thing, to prove your worthiness.”

  For Dahud-Ahes, there was never any doubt of her desire and she ran straightaway to her father’s bedchamber and, finding him asleep, she took the golden key and chain from around his neck. Then she hurried to the great gate where the handsome young god stood.

  “Open the gate,” instructed Maponos, “if you trust and desire me. Prove to me that you believe in me.”

  She put the key in the lock, turned it and flung open the gate. The vast green frothy sea rushed in. Dahud-Ahes turned eagerly to the young man.

  “Now save the city, for I have proved my love for you,” she cried.

  The young man started to laugh. He laughed and, as he did so, his body was transformed into a twisted, ageing devil with the evil, sneering face of Gwezenneg. Then, with the laughter still echoing, the figure disappeared.

  In terror and despair, Dahud-Ahes ran through the city of Ker-Ys, raising the alarm. The sea rushed down, its waves like hungry mouths swallowing all in their path.

  “Mount up behind, my daughter!”

  Gradlon rode up beside her on his fastest charger, and Dahud-Ahes was swung up behind. The king rode as hard as he could before the mighty, oncoming tide, the powerful sinews of his horse bursting with the effort. But the sea began to overtake them, to swallow them. Gradlon began to despair when he heard the voice of Guénolé.

  “If you would save yourself and your people, Gradlon, throw your unworthy and shameful daughter off into the sea. She has betrayed you for her own desires.”

  With aching heart, Gradlon did as he was bid. He pushed his pleading daughter back into the hungry waves. The seas began to recede, although Ker-Ys remained submerged. But all the people of Ker-Ys managed to reach the safety of dry land, except for Dahud-Ahes, who was swept under the mighty waves. But because Dahud-Ahes was bound to the wheel of fate, because she was not the beginning nor the ending of its cycle, Guénolé took pity on her.

  “You will live your time as one of the merfolk, living in the sunken palaces of Ker-Ys for all eternity!”

  And so it is, throughout time, Dahud-Ahes, in the form of a mermaid, still lures unwary sailors, drawn on by her unsurpassable beauty, to the bottom of the sea. Thus, in the language of the Bretons, the place is called Boé an Anaon, or the Bay of Suffering Souls.

  Gradlon, meanwhile, went on in sorrow to Kemper, which is still called Quimper to this day. And he became a convert of Guénolé. When that venerable man returned to his monastery at Landevénnec, Gradlon chose Corentin as the bishop of his city, and ended his days in the odour of sanctity, guided and sustained by Corentin, who became patron of the town. And if you climb the cathedral that is in the Place St Corentin today, you will find that a statue of Gradlon on horseback stands between its two spires.

  But beware of standing on the Pointe de Raz, listening to the whispering of the sea amongst the rocks: beware, lest you hear the seductive calling of Dahud-Ahes.

  33 N’oun Doaré

  There was once a noble chieftain of Montroulez, in Léon, one of the five ancient kingdoms of Armorica, the land by the sea. Montroulez is now known by the French form of the name
– Morlaix. This noble chieftain was called Bras, for he was tall as well as important, and he ruled the adjacent territory of Coat-Squiriou. He had been to the great horse-fair in Montroulez to acquire a new plough-horse, and was accompanied by his servant.

  As Bras and his servant rode back after the fair, along the dusty road towards his fortress, they heard a whimpering from the hedge. It was the cry of a distressed child. Bras was a kindly man who had not been blessed with children, although he and his wife Anvab loved and wanted children more than their rich castle and estates. So when he heard the cry of the distressed child, he halted his horse and told his servant to investigate.

  The servant climbed down from the plough-horse, for that was the horse he was riding, and went to peer into the hedge. He found, to his surprise, a small boy, not more than five years old, huddled against the chill air, trying to sleep under the thorn bush.

  The child had been whimpering in his sleep.

  The servant prodded the boy and woke him.

  The child let out a yell and cowered back, clearly frightened.

  “What is it?” called Bras.

  “A young knave, sir, hiding in the bushes,” replied the servant.

  Bras climbed down and came to investigate, himself. “What are you doing there, boy?” he demanded.

  The boy cringed back. “I don’t know,” he replied.

  “Trying to sleep, I think, sir,” offered the servant.

  “Who is your father, boy?” demanded Bras, wondering how such a young boy could be allowed to wander alone in the country and sleep in such a place.

  “I don’t know,” replied the boy.

  Bras raised his eyes in surprise. “And who is your mother, then?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the boy.

  Bras shook his head in wonder. “Where do you come from, then?” pressed the chieftain. “Surely you know that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “By the long hand of Lug!” snapped the chieftain, “are those the only words you know?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the child doggedly.

  Even the servant could not help but smile.

  “Well, we shall call you ‘I don’t know’, until such time as you discover your own name or earn a new one,” replied Bras. And from then on the child was called N’oun Doaré, which means “I don’t know” in the Breton language.

  Bras told the child that he should come with him, and Bras and his wife would take care of him until they found who his parents were. The child did not object and so the servant took him up on the plough-horse and, with Bras leading the way, they returned to the great fortress of Coat-Squiriou.

  The Lady Anvab fell in love with the young child and soon took him in hand, having him washed and given clean clothes and food. It was obvious that she saw, in the child, the baby that she could not have. And in that, Bras was also pleased to have the child around his castle. Yet he was a fair and just man. He sent his servants to the five kingdoms of Armorica and in each of them enquiries were made about the mysterious child and his parents. But no one knew him nor came forward to name him as their own.

  Two years passed. N’oun Doaré drew near the age when most sons of chieftains were sent to “fosterage” – that is when they were sent away to seek an education. Now Bras had a cousin, who was a famous Druid in Carhaix, which lay south across the hills; he decided that N’oun Doaré should go to his cousin, the Druid, for his education.

  Needless to say, before the child went, Bras had to deal with some protests from his wife. But she accepted it in the end, for that was the way of things. Chieftain’ sons always went away to study until they reached the “age of choice”, which was seventeen years of age.

  The years passed – quickly for N’oun Doaré, and slowly for Anvab and Bras. Then, one day, a handsome young man approached their fortress. He was slim, had red-gold hair and keen blue eyes. He bore himself with a noble elegance. Bras, having seen the young man approach, had gone down to the castle gates to greet the stranger and he was amazed when this youth rushed up to him and embraced him like a son.

  “It is I. It is N’oun Doaré!”

  Bras recovered from his surprise to call his wife, Anvab, and that evening there was a great feasting, with music and the best wine of the country to celebrate the return of the boy whom they had made their own son.

  That evening Bras told N’oun Doaré how pleased he was. “Tomorrow, I shall swear before my council that I have adopted you and that you are now my heir-elect. You must win my people’s hearts as you have won those of Anvab and myself.”

  The young man bowed his head in gratitude. According to the ancient law, Bras could name one of his family as the heir-elect, but it had to be approved by the family.

  “You honour me too much. I still do not know who I am nor where I come from. I have no memory other than being awakened in that ditch by your servant all those years ago.”

  “It matters not,” Lady Anvab told the boy. “We know all that there is to know about you. It is what you are now that counts. Not what you were.”

  Bras was as good as his word. The next day he made the formal announcement to his council and his chiefs and nobles were pleased, for everyone in Coat-Squiriou liked the young boy and were pleased he had turned into a well-educated young man.

  “Did my cousin teach you the use of arms, as befitting a son of a chief?” asked Bras one day.

  The young man nodded. “Your cousin, the Druid, taught me many things,” N’oun Doaré replied. “Among them was the use of arms in order to protect the weak from any injustice caused by the arrogance of the strong.”

  Bras was pleased. “Then today we shall ride for Montroulez. There is a blacksmith there who makes weapons for the king of Léon himself. That is the place where we may purchase for you the best sword in the land.”

  So they straightaway rode off for Montroulez and it was the day of the Haute Foire, the middle of October, and there was a great market in the town. They came to the blacksmith’s shop and spent a long time there, examining many fine weapons. But N’oun Doaré did not appear to be interested in any of them. None of them seemed to please him and, finally, they left the blacksmith, who was greatly irritated, without making a purchase. Bras was actually puzzled by the seemingly over-particular attitude of the youth when he examined the weapons.

  They were passing through the stalls of the fair, in the main square of the town, when N’oun Doaré halted. Bras frowned, for they were among the seedier stalls of junk, away from the stalls where a chieftain like himself might expect a good purchase.

  N’oun Doaré was examining a stall on which there was a lot of scrap metal, twisted and rusty items that surely no one would want. From the tangled mess of bent and rusting metal, he had extracted an ancient rusty iron sword. He weighed it in his hand as if testing the balance of the ancient metal.

  The stall-holder came forward. He wore a single black robe with a cowl, shielding him from head to toe. He kept his head lowered, as if out of respect.

  “Look closely at the blade, young sir. There is some writing there.”

  N’oun Doaré peered closely and scraped away a little of the rust to reveal some worn lettering. He managed to decipher it. “I am invincible,” it read.

  He turned to Bras, who was looking on with disapproval. “This is the sword for me, Bras, my father. Will you purchase it for me?”

  Bras stared at N’oun Doaré as if the boy had lost his head. “What? This is scrap. It’s eaten with rust. Look at the state it is in. Besides, it’s not even steel: it is rusty iron, centuries old. Who wants an iron sword that will bend and rip before a trusty steel blade? Are you joking with me? You have passed up swords fit for a king and now choose this piece of rusty scrap. It’s good for nothing.”

  N’oun Doaré smiled patiently. He could not explain to Bras that he felt a curious compulsion to be the owner of the rusty sword. �
�Please, my father, buy it for me – and you will see that it is good for something.”

  The stall-holder, still keeping his head lowered, said softly to Bras, the chieftain: “The young man has made a wise choice, sir.”

  Bras sniffed in disapproval. “And I suppose that you want to rob me, now?” he said disdainfully to the stall-owner. “How much do you want for this worthless scrap?”

  “The price is the handclasp of a just chieftain,” and the stall-holder held out his hand to Bras.

  The chieftain was so taken aback that he reached into his purse and took out a silver coin. “Here is my hand, my man, but you cannot live on that, so here is a coin to go with it.”

  They continued on through the market with N’oun Doaré apparently delighted with the purchase.

  “I said that I would also buy you a horse,” Bras reminded him. “There is the market for the horses at the far end of the square.”

  Indeed, there were many fine horses gathered there for sale. There were the cream of the horses from the five kingdoms, not only from Léon but from the kingdom of the Veneti (Vannes), from Poher, from Kernev (Cornouaille), from Domnonée.

  Again, N’oun Doaré did not appear to find one that took his fancy. Bras showed him many fine horses, good warhorses which he knew the King of Léon would pay a fine price for, but the young man would have none of them.

  So Bras and N’oun Doaré left the horse fair with Bras airing his disgust at how finicky his adopted son was turning out to be.

  It was as they were taking the road back to Coat-Squiriou that they encountered a man leading a horse. He was a tall man, clad in a long black robe and cowl which covered him from head to foot. He was leading a very sorry-looking animal. The horse was thin and the bones stood out as if it were the Mare of Doom.