She gathered the roots of certain plants that would stop unwanted body hair from growing, flowers which could lighten skin, and nectar to make eyes clear and bright. She placed these herbs in her great iron cauldron, mixed in pure spring water, and placed the pot over a fire of apple wood and hazel branches. After much stirring and gentle simmering, the brew was ready and Ceridwen poured the elixir into Avagddu’s bedtime milk.
But, after he drank it, things took a turn for the worse. His eyes did shine more brightly, but his odd little face became even darker and hairier than before! More children began to tease him and unkind adults talked openly about, ‘that foolish, hairy crow-boy’. His mother became more determined than ever to make a remedy to cure her son’s problems. Her herb-lore was vast; she knew that if she collected all the sacred plants in the world and brewed them in her magical cauldron for one year and a day, she would have a medicine to make her child the most handsome and intelligent boy on earth. So, Ceridwen set out to gather these plants.
She crossed all the oceans and seas, trekked through dusty deserts, tramped through dark forests and climbed tall mountains. Each root, seed, herb and flower she found was lovingly brought back home to Wales and put into her cauldron. While the goddess was away, her neighbour’s young boy, Gwion, was left to look after the cooking. He had been shown how to keep the pot heating gently and how to stir carefully and slowly with a long spoon made of walnut wood.
Gwion knew that this herb-soup was very special and very important and that whatever happened he was, ‘NEVER TO TASTE IT!’ Ceridwen had made him promise not to let the brew pass his lips. If it did, she would have him killed.
Now, one year and one day is a long time for a young boy to sit tending a fire and stirring a big pot of soup. A few times he fell asleep and nearly let the fire go out, but he always managed to rekindle the flames just in time to keep the potion simmering in the cooking pot. Once, he even dropped the spoon in the pot. He had to fish it out with a long twig, being careful to prevent any splashes from escaping.
Finally, the day arrived when the mystical liquid was ready. Gwion waited for Ceridwen to return. He knew she would arrive on the wind and conduct a magical ceremony involving the bubbling liquid in her cauldron. Then she would give the elixir to her child, Avagddu. But something awful happened – as Gwion gave one final stir to the steaming potion, three drops of hot liquid splashed, hissing, out of the pot and landed on his finger. They scalded his skin. He yelled in pain, and without thinking, stuck his sore finger into his mouth to sooth the burn.
In that instant, Gwion was transformed from a boy to a man, from a student to a wise teacher. He knew that all of the magical essence of the brew had been contained within those three little drops, now all the wisdom of the world was in him. What was left in the cauldron was deadly; even breathing in the fumes would kill a person. An ear-splitting crack made Gwion jump, as the giant cauldron broke in two. He leaped away, just managing to avoid the poisonous concoction as it poured out of the shattered container. Gwion fled from Ceridwen’s house, fearing what she would do to him when she discovered that he had stolen the gift intended for her son.
All too soon, Ceridwen returned. She saw immediately that Gwion was gone and that all that was left in her broken cauldron was a deadly brew of poison. Gathering herself up into the sky in a dark storm cloud of fury, she vowed to hunt Gwion down and kill him.
With a sinking heart, Gwion saw the storm cloud grow. It would have been impossible for a normal man or woman to escape from the angry goddess, but Gwion had his new superpowers of wisdom and intelligence – now he had a slim chance of outwitting Ceridwen and escaping her vengeance.
‘What is the fastest thing in the world?’ he asked himself. The answer blew back to him in the air.
‘Of course.’ Gwion changed himself into a gust of wind and sped away from the angry goddess. He blew for many miles, but eventually grew too tired to continue in that form. He stopped to rest, but the furious shrieks of Ceridwen’s thundering storm cloud drew rapidly nearer.
He turned himself into a fine, fast hare, and ran for his life. But Ceridwen was also a shape-shifter and she changed into a sleek greyhound. In a moment, she closed in on the hare, her sharp white teeth gnashing, ready to rip and kill her prey.
Feeling the dog’s hot breath on his fur, Gwion leaped into the river and turned himself into a strong, silver fish. The powerful ripples of his body took him quickly downstream, away from the snarling dog. But the clever goddess turned into an otter and dived into the water in pursuit of her prey. Gwion saw the flash of wet fur and two black eyes staring into his. The otter opened its mouth to bite. Gwion changed into a tiny bird, flying with all his might out of the river and into the bushes. He darted and fluttered under branches, between the thorns. The goddess leaped out of the river, turning herself into a mighty hawk, swooping after the little bird.
Gwion’s tiny bird heart beat so fast he feared it might pop. The hawk’s razor-sharp talons tore at the branches above him. In desperation, he left the bushes and flew through the open door of a farmer’s barn. His body crashed into a pile of grain. This gave Gwion an idea. He turned himself into a single grain of wheat. Here at last, buried amongst thousands of other grains, he must surely be safe from the angry goddess!
But nothing could deceive a supernatural being as clever and powerful as Ceridwen, moon goddess and mother of all. She changed into a plump, black hen and pecked with great delight at all of the grain in the barn. Eventually Gwion too was swallowed up, disappearing inside her belly.
There he stayed for nine months, growing as a new life inside the all-powerful goddess.
Ceridwen was annoyed that she was carrying this boy, a child who had tricked and deceived her. She planned to kill him, but when he was born, she was amazed by his perfect beauty – she couldn’t slay this gorgeous, little, baby boy. Instead, she wrapped him carefully inside a soft cloth, placed him in a strong leather bag, then set him to float on the sea in a small coracle, woven from water reeds.
The next day, the boat drifted ashore many miles away. A washerwoman found the baby and took him home. Her husband thought he was a fine little boy. Together they named him Taliesin and they brought him up with much kindness and love.
Taliesin had many adventures during his life and grew up to be the most skilled storyteller of all. His tales are still shared and enjoyed today, because everyone loves a good story.
NOTES: This tale contains an exciting chase scene, which is an excellent illustration for the chain of life. Medicinal plants are another subject contained within this tale. The story can be told as a fun introduction to the topic of plant medicine and herbal preparations.
6
THE ALDER SPRITE
(ENGLAND)
Tam lived in a cottage, near a very special well called the Saints’ Well. All the water he ever needed came from this well. Tam knew how lucky he was to live next to such a wonderful source of water. It was the clearest, purest water in the whole valley – in fact many folk said it was the best water in the whole of Somerset! Even on hot summer’s days it stayed cool and untainted. Tam used the well like a larder, keeping his butter, cheese and even his salt bacon in a bucket down the well. He was one of the few people in the village whose pork was still fresh enough to eat in the winter; safely preserved in the dark, cold well. Each year Tam ate juicy pork, with crispy crackling for his Christmas dinner, such a rare treat in those days before refrigeration, and all thanks to the Saint’s Well.
An alder tree grew next to the well – it had been there as long as Tam could remember. One summer, when its leaves were full and bright green, he noticed that one of the tree’s lower branches was growing right across the mouth of the well, making it harder for Tam to draw the water up in his bucket. He muttered and grumbled about the encroaching limb, but Tam knew full well that it was a very unwise thing to cut an alder. None of the old folk in the valley would ever prune such a sacred tree; rumour had it that the tree would
bleed if cut and awful things would happen to the person who harmed it.
As summer ended and autumn turned the land from green to gold, the leaves began to drop down into the water. Tam swore that the fallen leaves were causing the water to taste sour. Finally, he decided to cut off the limb.
‘Surely chopping one branch wouldn’t offend any spirits?’ he thought to himself.
He took his axe, sharpened the blade and began to chop at the branch. To Tam’s surprise, a loud moan escaped from the branches above his head. He stopped and looked up into the tree’s canopy. He was horrified to see wood smoke swirling through the leaves. He turned to his house; he hadn’t lit a fire yet today. He ran up the path just to be sure the house was all right. When he got to his property, all was fine, no smoke, no fire – it must have been his imagination.
Tam returned to his job, chopping off the low branch above his precious well. As he raised his axe high and brought it down forcefully into the bark, there came an even louder cry from the very heart of the tree. Now Tam heard fire crackling and even caught a whiff of the unmistakable smell of burning. Again he dropped the axe and ran to his cottage, terrified that somehow his thatch or timbers were alight. And once more he saw everything was fine, the cottage was standing as it should be – no fire, or burning timbers.
‘Right!’ Tam said angrily. ‘I’m being tricked by some spirit here, or else I’m losing my mind. I’m not going to pay attention to anymore of this nonsense, or witchery!’
He went back to the well, picked up his axe and chopped at the branch for all he was worth. Each time the blade struck into the wood, a piercing scream rang out. With each blow of the axe, the terrified tree spirit cried louder and louder. Tam heard the cries of pain and smelled wood smoke. He heard flames beginning to leap and rise, crackling and hissing, as if a fire began to rage behind him.
‘Oh, no, you’re not foolin’ me again. I’m not paying any mind to your trickery. I’m taking this limb off and that’s that!’
Despite the sound, smell, and now heat of a raging house-fire, Tam kept on with his task until the long, leafy branch lay on the ground, severed from the body of the tree.
Tam picked up his prize with pride. It was a good, solid piece of wood and Tam smiled to himself as he thought how well it would burn in his hearth tonight. But as he turned to take it up to his log-pile, he saw red-faced neighbours and villagers running towards his cottage.
‘Fire, fire!’ they yelled, as more villagers came running with buckets of water to put out the blaze.
Tam reached his house too late. This time the flames were real, the whole place was ablaze. There was nothing Tam or his neighbours could do to stop the fire from destroying his home.
A very sorry Tam sat down in the dirt, still holding the alder branch, and sobbed. A kindly lass gave him a mug of water from the well, and when he could talk, he told the villagers about the visions the tree-spirit had given him, and how he had foolishly ignored them.
The local folk looked on in pity but all agreed that the alder sprite had given him fair warning and poor Tam had got his just desserts.
NOTES: The ancient Celtic tribes believed that trees were magical, and none more so than the alder tree. This is the type of wood used by water-diviners when they are looking for underground water. Slender alder branches are held lightly in the diviners’ hands, and start to twitch and pull downwards when they pass over the hidden water source; the spirit of the wood is thirsty for a drink of subterranean water.
Because of its never-ending thirst, the tree always grows near water.
This West Country story echoes these old beliefs. Tam knew it was a sacred tree, not to be cut, but he ignored the warnings, suppressed his own instincts and emotional intelligence. The result was a simple direct lesson about respecting the life of the tree and Tam paid with his home.
The theme of spirits living in trees is common in British and European folklore and throughout the world. The Celtic lunar calendar attributed a specific tree to each lunar month – this was your lucky tree. This is where the expression ‘touch wood’, for luck, comes from. You would be even luckier if you touched wood from the tree assigned to your Celtic birth month! You can find your tree in Helena Paterson’s book: The Celtic Lunar Zodiac – How to Interpret Your Moon Sign (Rider, 1992).
The folkloric beliefs and references to trees are vast. From Somerset comes an old rhyme about the nature of certain trees:
Ellum do grieve
Oak he do hate
Willow do walk
If you travels late.
Katherine Briggs, A Book of Fairies (Penguin Books, 1977), p.30
This meant that if you cut or harmed an elm tree, all the other elms around it would die of grief. Damage or fell an oak and you were in serious trouble, for the oak’s spirit would seek revenge and do harm to the guilty person. Perhaps the tree curse to be most feared was that of the willow, as the belief was that to hurt the willow would result in other willow trees following you in the dark – a very scary prospect in times before street lights and torches.
The Elder tree was renowned for housing the spirit of a witch, or powerful mother figure, and the rowan tree for protecting you and your property from harm and evil.
7
SAVING THE FOREST
(SCOTLAND)
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, Scotland was ruled by two goddesses: Bride and Beara. Although they were sisters, they couldn’t have been more different. Bride had long blonde hair and bronze, sun-kissed skin. She smiled wherever she went. When Bride ruled the land, all the people were happy.
Beara was as ugly as her sister was beautiful. Her skin was mottled blue, her hair a tangled snarl of purple, and her one eye, which was set in the middle of her forehead, glowed red. When Beara ruled, weather turned foul. Sleet and snow trailed after her and howling winds twined about her knobbly legs. When she arrived, people hid inside their wooden houses, food was scarce and faces were long and drawn.
Back then, most of Scotland was covered in trees, which the people depended upon for food, shelter and heat. They collected nuts and fruit from the woods to feed themselves and their animals. They cut down trees to build their simple round houses. They hunted the deer that lived in the woods for food and in the winter they collected branches off the forest floor to make fires to warm their homes and cook their meals.
When Bride ruled, the trees unfurled their leaves, blossoms bloomed and fruit ripened. The deer grew plump and food was plentiful. The people loved Bride for her generosity. They sang and danced her praises. They never celebrated when Beara was around and as the years passed Beara’s jealousy of her sister grew.
Beara and Bride had an agreement: when one was ruling, the other had to stay on an island far to the west. One summer’s day, as Beara sat in her island exile gazing into her scrying pool, watching morosely as the people of Scotland held yet another party in honour of her sister, she had an idea. She was not allowed to go to Scotland until Bride’s turn was over, but there was no rule against sending someone else over there in her stead. And she had just the perfect someone in mind.
Beara summoned a ferocious dragon to the island. She whispered her plan into his huge golden ear. Then she conjured up an enormous cloud and hid him in the middle of it. She watched eagerly as dragon and cloud flew swiftly towards Scotland.
As the huge, dark cloud settled over the land, blocking out the sun, people stopped smiling. As giant balls of fire began to fall from the cloud, setting alight everything they hit, people ran to hide in their houses.
The fire burned down pine trees, destroyed fruit bushes and nut trees, and chased away the deer. Slowly, but certainly, Scotland’s beautiful forest was being destroyed. What were the people to do? The cloud showed no sign of moving.
The king called all his best hunters and warriors to a meeting. ‘There is a dragon in that cloud,’ he told them, ‘and our beloved forest is not safe until the beast is slain.’
The warriors threw
their spears into the cloud, but they couldn’t see the dragon hidden inside, so their weapons missed their mark. The archers shot their arrows into the cloud, but they too failed to hit their mark and fire continued to fall from the sky.
The people began to despair. There was no more dancing. There was no more singing. Their faces were long with worry. The King called a meeting of all the wisest men and women from across the land. They talked for days, but not one of them could tell him how to get rid of the dragon.
All the while, fire rained down, burning up everything in its path, and the people feared there would be no trees left.
A young girl approached the castle and asked to meet with the King. She claimed she knew how to get rid of the dragon. The guards laughed at her. How could a young girl solve a problem that baffled their wisest elders and fiercest warriors? But they let her through.
The girl’s stomach churned as she entered the hall and everyone’s eyes turned towards her, but the king smiled kindly and waved her forward. She whispered her plan in his ear. The king nodded thoughtfully, and then he smiled.
He sent his best archers and warriors to the tops of the highest hills. Then he sent messengers to every corner of the Kingdom, ordering people to take the baby animals away from their mothers. They were to take the lambs from the ewes, the foals from the mares, the calves from the cows, the kids from the nanny goats, the chicks from the hens, and the ducklings from the ducks. Even human babies were to be taken away from their human mothers.
Dancing with Trees Page 5
