Litavis was surprised, however, when Moravik came to her room with a silver tray. On the silver tray was a bottle of ruby wine and two goblets.
“I am pleased that you have recovered your health, Litavis,” the cunning sister of Avoez said. “To celebrate, let us drink a glass of ruby wine and observe the pleasant spring day.”
Now Litavis was a trusting and open-hearted person. There was no guile nor deceit within her, and she was not aware of the fault in others. So she accepted Moravik’s ruby wine with joy and they sat sipping and observing the bright spring day together.
She did not realize that Moravik had emptied a phial of liquid into her goblet and that phial was a special potion which she had prepared with all her wizard cunning.
Soon, very soon, Litavis fell into a deep, drugged sleep.
Knowing full well that no one could rouse themselves from the effects of the potion before twelve hours had passed, Moravik left the tower room with the doors unlocked and took away the wine and goblets. Then she returned and went to hide in an old oak wardrobe, to observe what would take place.
Litavis stayed in her deep sleep a night and a day and only when it was dusk did she rouse herself, sat up and rubbed her eyes and gazed out on the restless seas beyond her window.
In her heart, she called for Eudemarec.
In a moment, the hawk entered the chamber and in a blink of an eye her lover, Eudemarec, stood beside her.
“Why did you not call for me last night?”
Litavis frowned.
“Last night?”
“You did not call for me. Does aught ail you?”
She passed a hand across her brow. “I recall drinking wine and falling into a deep sleep. But that does not matter now, my love . . . I am awake now, and you are with me.”
Eudemarec and Litavis slept together until the first pale streaks of dawn and then he rose from the couch and flew away back to the Country of Silver.
Litavis, smiling, went to sleep.
Then it was that Moravik crept out of the wardrobe and crept from the tower room. She was awed by what she had seen and hurried down to the castle. Her brother Avoez had returned and was waiting to hear the news.
“She has a lover!” announced Moravik.
Avoez flew into a great anger. “Do you lie to me, sister?”
“Never, brother. She has a lover.”
“Who is this lover? I will tear him to pieces . . .”
“Calm your rage. Listen to what I have to say. The lover is the hawk which turns into a noble champion when he enters her bedchamber.”
Avoez was astounded. “He is a wizard, then?”
Moravik sniffed. “I am more steeped in wizardry than this one. He is a comely warrior called Eudemarec, and that is the name by which she called him.”
“Eudemarec? Where does he come from?”
“It matters not. Only that when she calls for him, he comes to the chamber in the body of a hawk, and hawks can be destroyed.”
“How so?”
“We deal with magic, here. I have a plan, though. Go to Gof the Smith and tell him to make four pikes that are razor-sharp.”
“I shall do so.”
“Have him make points that are so sharp that even the wind’s breath is cut by them.”
“I shall do so.”
“Then have your servants wait until the girl is asleep, just after dawn tomorrow. At that time, they must fix the pikes in the window of the chamber room.”
“Ah!” cried Avoez. “I see the plan. This lover will be cut to little pieces when he tries to enter.”
Moravik chuckled softly. “You have the plan exactly, my brother.”
The evening after the pike heads had been fixed to the window, after dusk, Litavis lay and called to her lover.
The flapping of the hawk’s wings grew near and then the hawk appeared.
She let forth a scream as the bleeding bird fell into the chamber, changed into human form and staggered to the couch.
Eudemarec was mortally wounded.
With horror and grief, Litavis tried to bind his wounds, but it was little use, for he was cut to pieces.
“I give my life for your love, Litavis,” he said quietly. “But despair not. You will bear a son who will grow up valiant and wise and you must call him Ywenec.”
“Ywenec,” repeated the girl obediently.
“He will avenge me, Litavis. Now kiss me and let me go, for my enemies must not find me here and capture me.”
“I cannot bear to part with you.”
“Have no fear. I shall be ever near you. You will hear my voice in the whispering night seas and feel the touch of my lips with the gentle sea spray.”
“Let me die with you, Eudemarec! Let me come with you to the County of Silver.”
However, Eudemarec turned into a hawk, still torn and bleeding, and flew out of the window and was gone.
Litavis was left alone and sobbing for her mortally wounded lover.
Now when the servants of Avoez had fixed the pikes in place they, being lazy and inclined to do no more than was minimal, had left their ladder against the tower wall. Litavis tugged at one of the pikes and made enough room to squeeze through and out she went onto the ladder. She came swiftly to the ground and saw the drops of blood made by the hawk forming a trail across the grass and across the fields of wheat and oats.
Onward and onward she followed the trail of the hawk’s blood over hill, river and through wood, until she came to the great forest of Quénécan, whose oak and beech trees spread like a thick carpet. She wandered by the fast-flowing waters of the Daoulas, through its gorges, until she came to the shore of Lake Guerlédan, where she fell exhausted, for she had lost the trail of blood and did not know which way to go.
“Oh, Merlin! Oh wisest and greatest of all wizards, help me find my beloved,” she cried in her despair.
There was a sighing across the waters and she heard a deep voice answering her. “Bathe yourself in the waters of the lake, Litavis.”
Now the moon was up, round and white, in the black night sky. Thinking no more, Litavis peeled her clothes from her pale tired body, and, feeling no chill, she entered the dark waters and bathed herself.
“Gone is all impurity,” sighed a voice.
And she returned to shore and put on her clothes. Then, as she turned to cry again to Merlin, she found a tall, thin elf sitting on a branch watching her.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am called Bugel Noz,” the elf said. “I am the shepherd of the night.”
“Then, good shepherd, tell me where I must go to follow my love.”
The Bugel Noz held out his hand to her and she took it, and she felt a very soporific feeling overcome her: a dream-like state.
“Hark to me, Litavis, Flower of the Rocks of Penmarc’h. Hold my hand and we will follow the drops of blood of your beloved hawk.”
And she suddenly saw the blood spots again and the Bugel Noz led her onwards, following them, following them southwards and further southwards, until they came by dark forest paths to a strange, wild seashore.
She heard a singing.
At once, the Bugel Noz said to her: “Close your ears, Litavis. You must not listen to the song of the mari-morgan. Close your ears but look about you.”
Litavis saw men and women wandering the strange shore, moving like wraiths; slowly they moved and with the look of doom on their faces.
“They will never be able to rest, for they listened to the mari-morgan’s song and her icy call has captured their hearts and minds.”
And the elf led her onwards, along the rolling surf, breaking thunderously on the rocky seashore; and onwards again into sea grottoes, and rocky caverns, until they halted in an underwater cave.
Then the Bugel Noz put a pipe to his lips and played a wild tune.
There was a sudden flash of lightning in the cave and a voice said: “Who summons me?”
The elf replied: “I do, Yann-an-Oded. I bring Litavis a
nd place her in your care. For she seeks her beloved.”
Then the Bugel Noz was gone, playing his pipes back into his forest dwelling.
Yann-an-Oded came forward, a tiny elfin creature who danced around her shouting: “C’hwe! C’hwe! Ra zeui a-benn!,” thus wishing her success in her task.
He took her by the hand and led her onward again, along the foam-kissed shore, passing the whispering waves which tossed bright silver fishes from one wave to another. And on those waves she saw the morwreg, the daughters of the sea: maidens with shining silver fish-tails who rode the breakers and played in the foam of their crests, all the while laughing and singing to each other.
“The blood drops, Litavis,” called Yann-an-Oded. “Follow the blood drops of your beloved hawk.”
Onwards he led her, away from the clamorous sea, over the rolling dunes, until they approached a great circle of standing stones. Menhirs, dolmens and great circles of ancient stones filled the landscape.
Yann-an-Oded halted at the edge of the circle and pointed to where the drops of blood led straight across the circle.
“I must leave you here, Litavis; follow the drops of blood. But before you go, this plough stick.”
Litavis frowned. “What shall I do with that?”
“A mortal holding the stick may pass through Carnac unharmed. With this, you may pass the dancing korrigan. Hold it and follow the drops of blood.”
With the same flash of lightning in which he had appeared, the elfin creature was gone.
Litavis began to walk through the stones. It was very bright and the moon was full and silvery.
She heard a whistling sound, high-pitched, and moving in curious rhythms.
“The korrigan!” she whispered, recognising the sounds of the sprites who ruled the realms of the night.
She saw them dancing in the stone circle, dancing the jabadao, a dance of the Breton people, laughing to themselves. Then they stopped; their diamond-shaped elfin eyes caught sight of her and stared with curiosity.
“Diwall! Diwallit! Beware! Watch out!” they called to one another. “Here is a human who trespasses where she should not be.”
They moved towards her and she gripped the plough stick before her, gripped it tightly in her hands.
Then they began to dance swiftly around in a circle chanting.
Dilun, di meurzh, dimerc’her . . .
Lez on, lez y
Bas an arer zo gant y . . .
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . .
Let her go, let her go!
She has the plough stick in her hand . . .
And their circle parted and they let her walk through their midst. She saw how beautiful the korrigan were, laughing and joyous and calling on her to dance with them. And she did so, still holding her stick.
“Diyaou, digwener, di sadorn ha disul”
“Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday . . .”
“Let her go, let her go . . .”
“Doue d’e bordono!” they cried. “Ra zeui a-benn!”
And, wishing her success, they let her proceed on her way.
She finally came to a hill and she saw a door in the side of this hill, on which were splattered drops of blood. She went up to the door and tried the iron handle on it. It opened to her touch and she pushed into the blackness beyond. She could see nothing. She held out her hands to feel her way, step by step, onward down a long, dark, dank tunnel, at the end of which she saw a light. She hurried on until she came to a gate at the end of the tunnel. The gate was of pure silver and studded with many jewels.
She peered beyond the gate and saw a bright land, with meadows filled with silver flowers and bright with silvery dew.
“Merlin, oh, Merlin, wisest of all wizards, help me now,” she cried as she tested the strength of the gate.
It opened abruptly and she entered.
She saw the drops of blood leading along a path through the meadow and the path led upwards towards a tall city of silver atop a hill.
She hurried on, meeting no one, until she entered the city and made her way to the harbour by a great silvery sea. Anchored there were three hundred tall masted and magnificent fighting ships. On the quay were the tell-tale drops of blood. She looked around for someone to help her, but found no one. There was no living soul in the Silver City.
She walked back into the heart of the city.
Then she saw a path leading upwards to a great palace which dominated the city. So she followed the path along an avenue which led through ancient oaks and rowan trees with many scented flowers. Now she saw that the trail of blood drops was leading her towards the palace.
At the gate stood a handsome warrior, but he was sleeping where he stood. In the hallway was a feasting table with lords and ladies asleep before their food and wine. Musicians lay in a corner, with hands on their instruments, slumbering away. Further on was a bedchamber, in which a noble lord and his lady lay fast asleep in one another’s arms. The whole palace seemed asleep.
She searched each room until she came to a great royal bedchamber hung with silver chandeliers and a crystal studded ceiling. There, on a large silver bed, adorned with bright white sheets, was stretched the body of her lover, pale and reposed as in death.
“Eudemarec!” she cried, flinging herself on the bed beside him. “My life, my love . . .!”
The handsome noble stirred, fluttered his eyes and gazed sorrowfully at her.
“Litavis, the Flower of Penmarc’h, you have followed my bloody trail. You have dared to come through lands which no mortal man may see . . . you have dared much in your love for me.”
“Let me share whatever fate you have.”
“I fear it may not be so.”
“Let me die with you. That much is a token of my love.”
“It is not your destiny. You must return to Lanaskol. There is your destiny.”
“Avoez will kill me if I return.”
Eudemarec shook his head slowly. “He will do you no harm, my love.”
He reached down and took a silver ring from his finger, a fine band almost as thin as a thread of silk. “Wear this ring. While you have it around your finger, neither Avoez nor Moravik will have any remembrance of what has passed between us.”
With that he fell back.
She bent forward and kissed him. “Let me stay!”
“It cannot be,” he said sadly. “Here, take the great silver sword that is by my side. Keep this in secret and keep it in safety until our son Ywenec has grown to manhood.”
She took the sword from his weak hands and he smiled. “I have a moment more. I will tell you what is to be. When Ywenec reaches the age of maturity, the king of Cornouaille will summon him to make him one of his warriors. You and Avoez will accompany him to the court. On the first night of your journey, you will arrive at the oak of Guénolé. You will find a tomb under the oak . . . it will be my tomb. It is there you will give to our son this sword and tell him of his true parentage and of his father’s murder at the hands of Avoez and Moravik.”
“Eudemarec . . . rather would I stay here.”
“No, it is not in your hands. Make haste back to the land of mortals, before the Silver City wakens, for if they do and find you here, you will surely lose your immortal soul. They will blame you for the death of their king.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Are you then a king, Eudemarec?”
“I am King of the Land of Silver,” confessed Eudemarec. “Now leave me, my beloved and do not grieve . . . One day, we shall meet again and we shall make love under the silver moon. Go now, for I feel the city waking. Make haste.”
Litavis put the band of silver on her finger, took up the great silver sword, and bent to kiss her love one more time on the lips.
She passed swiftly through the sleeping castle. Even as she did so, it seemed that the limbs of those sleeping were moving into life. She hurried on down the avenue, through the city and across the meadows. She heard the bells tolling the death-knell of the king. Her feet seemed to ha
rdly touch the ground when she was through the silver gate and along the dark tunnel and out into the darkness of the hillside.
Back across the stones of Carnac with the singing, dancing korrigan, she hastened. Then Yann-an-Oded was waiting for her and took her by the hand across the dark forests to the seashore. She heard the whispering voice of the sea. There Yann-an-Oded released her hand and she found that it was taken by the Bugel Noz.
“Hasten, Litavis,” he whispered. “Soon it will be dawn and the first cock will crow.”
She fairly flew through the forests, over the hills until she was under the high tower of the castle of Lanaskol.
The Bugel Noz seemed to lift her up and threw her and she found herself in her chamber. She looked around and found a hiding-place for the heavy silver sword. Then, in despair, she fell on her bed, weeping, just as the cock began to crow.
Just then the door opened and Avoez and Moravik came in and stared at her.
They appeared curious and looked from one to another.
“Why have we entered this chamber, brother?” demanded Moravik. “I knew when I opened the door, but I have forgotten now.”
Avoez scratched his head. “I . . . I do not know. I know that I meant to go hunting this morning. Perhaps I meant to ask Litavis to accompany me on the hunt.”
Litavis sat up in bed and felt the tiny band of silver on her finger.
“Go hunting lord?” she asked in amazement.
“Why should we not go hunting?”
“Well . . .” she wondered how much he remembered. “I am to have a child, my lord.”
Avoez stared at her in amazement and then his thin face broke into a smile.
“Moravik! Moravik! Do you hear that? I am to be a father. She is to have a child.”
“Yes, brother?” cried his sister. “Now you have everything you ever wanted.”
From that day forward, Avoez showered Litavis with gifts and nothing was too much trouble for him. He sent her handmaidens to attend to all her wants, and no gift was too rich or fine for her to have. Yet she refused to leave her little room at the top of the tower, in spite of all his pleadings.
“My son was conceived in this small, high room, and here he will be born,” she announced firmly.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 60
