Cethin sat next to her, bringing the hot tea.
“I know of its healing uses. But there are many other deeper into the soil, she yellow roots. Carefully, plants that do the same work. Why do you find the mallow so interesting?”
Fianna picked up a dried leaf and crumbled it into their tea. “Its power has lessened over the winter,” she said, “But still it will help the chamomile.”
“You are right, healer.,” she continued. “There is more to this plant than its healing powers.” She picked up another leaf and showed it to him. “The leaf is pointed, like a spear head. Higher on the plant, like this, the point has a small lobe on either side, three lobes for the three-fold nature of the goddess.”
“Are there not many goddesses?” asked Cethin.
“There are many goddesses. But when we speak of them all at once, we speak as of one. And her three-fold nature is that of all women; Maiden, the life-bearer; Mother, the nurturer; and Crone, the guide between the worlds. The mallow leaf is sweet to the taste, as the presence of the goddess is sweet to the heart. For these reasons many women carry a mallow leaf with them always, to remind them of the presence of the goddess in their lives.
“Look at the edge,” she said. “The many sharp teeth around the edge remind us of the many hardships of life. But as we seek the goddess within, we are empowered to face those hardships. Most healers know of the power of marsh mallow to heal the skin outwardly. Few have learned that drinking mallow tea brings healing from within, in the flesh as well as the spirit.”
“It does sweeten the tea,” said Cethin.
“As it also sweetens the spirit,” Fianna repeated. “And as marsh mallow brings healing from within, so also do the Marsh Tales.”
“How is it that stories can heal?” Cethin asked.
“Perhaps,” said Fianna, “they make a connection between what you carry inside and the experiences of others. Shared joy is more joyful, shared pain finds more comfort. Stories of hope lighten despair, and tales of triumph inspire endurance. When you hear a story you become part of it, and when that happens, you are no longer alone. Perhaps, and this is most important, stories enable you to share a healing experience you might not be able to have on your own.”
Cethin rose to pour more tea, then sat down again, his eyes searching for more understanding. “So a woman hearing or remembering Morla’s Tale might find encouragement in childbirth, even if she could never go to Ynys Bol Forla?”
“Not only encouragement, Cethin, but physical strength and ease. And, if needed, even healing. The Marsh Tales are ancient myths, symbolic stories that carry power in their very message. You might say they do what they talk about, in the life of the storyteller as well as the one who hears.”
“It sounds like magic,” said Cethin.
“If you choose to call it so. It is a way of connecting with the sacred.”
It was raining harder, and the wind seemed to drive the wet and cold through the wattle sides of the healer’s hut. Darkness of later afternoon was settling in. Cethin built up the small fire and found furs for their shoulders. All thought of an evening meal was forgotten.
“Tell me, then,” he said. “Tell me, Mother Fianna, about the Tales.”
“Morla’s Tale you already know,” she said. “It is the oldest of tales, for the sorrows of women and the birthing of children are the oldest of memories. Old as the marshes themselves. Yet it comes first in the telling, for the truth of the other tales emerges from it. In time, as time exists in the tales, it lies midway between the birth of the Lady and her coming to Ynys y Niwl. Morla’s Tale, the Tale of The Dark Lady of Llyn y Cysgodion, Doeth and the Marsh Sedge and The Lost Land of Iwerydd are tales of beginnings. Yet they tell not the true record of how things came to be, but the truth of how things are. Together they tell of the lot of women, the nature of the Lady, the settlement of the marshes, and the meaning of the stone temples. But those are the themes of the tales only. Each has deeper truths buried within.
“There follow tales of living, and there are six, bearing lessons of life.
“The Lights of the Ellylldan is a tale of courage and trust. It tells of the origin of our community of priestesses. The Visit of the Bendith y Mamau is a tale of hope. The Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint is a humorous tale of the power of humilty. The Tinner and the Coblynau, a story of the coming of the ancestors of Eosaidh of Cornualle to these shores, is a tale of faith in the midst of darkness. Hiraeth’s Tears tells us of the sorrows of love denied, and the failure of old and new traditions to find common ground. And the tale of The Gwraig Annwn does much the same. In the joys and sorrows, humor and tragedy, of these six tales lie deep lessons for the living of life.
“Finally, there are tales of completion. The Coming of the Lady is about the creation of the community of Priestesses on Ynys y Niwl, and their emergence from the ancient shadows. The Dragon’s Womb is a tale of power.
"These then are the Marsh Tales: Morla’s Belly
The Dark Lady of Llyn y Cysgodion Doeth and the Marsh Sedge
The Lost Land of Iwerydd
The Lights of the Ellylldan
The Visit of the Bendith y Mamau The Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint The Tinner and the Coblynau Hiraeth’s Tears
The Gwraig Annwn
The Coming of the Lady
The Dragon’s Womb
“The tales were told by different peoples, in other times and from many places. We know not their origins, but tradition has drawn them together. And together the twelve form the unwritten body of lore that bears the ancient wisdom of Affalon.”
Indeed, Fianna wove her story with many more words than these, and with deep silences, so the telling lasted into the middle darkness of the night. The hearth fire had nearly gone out. Shadows were deep in the hut, and it was cold.
Cethin rose, feeling the stiffness in his body, knowing it must be even worse for the woman before him.
Fianna knew his thoughts. “It is late for both of us,” she said, “and the tales need time for telling. Build up the fire for me, Cethin. These bones need some warmth in them before I sleep.” She sat on the edge of her cot and drew the fur closer around her shoulders. Cethin put a few sticks on the fire and a few more beside her cot, should she want them in the night. A desire to learn the tales burned in his heart. This strange woman of the marshes whom he had brought back from the edge of death was about to lead him into a new life. Perhaps she might bring healing of a kind to the healer. He took his leave and stepped out into the cold night, drawing his furs about him as he headed towards his sleeping hut.
In the flickering shadows Fianna stretched out on her cot. Its feel had become familiar to her, the healer’s hut almost seeming like her home. She let her mind drift, alone with her thoughts.
So this is why, my Lady, the currents have carried me here to the forests of the Silure. A young man of the Dubhbunadh peoples seems such a strange choice to be the bearer of the sacred tales. Not twenty summers ago he might have been leaving my charge to dance before the fires at Dolgwyl Waun. Instead he was already fighting the soldiers of Rome. Surely there is a young woman in Llan y gelli who would make a better vessel for the ancient lore?
Sianed drifted into her thoughts, speaking to her. It matters not, priestess, whether there is a better vessel. Doubtless there are many. But the currents have brought you together, and he is the choice. You have through the summer to teach him, but return to us here before the frosts. She raised a hand in blessing, and the calm gift of sleep washed over Fianna’s heart. Outside, in the Silure forest, came the single cry of an owl, and the music of the night.
Chapter Seven
II. The Dark Lady of Llyn y Cysgodion
It was a time beyond the memory of times. The marshes were vast and dark, and the boundaries between earth, sea and sky were less certain than they are today. The Dark Lady was a rumor that haunted the reeds, hovered above the black waters, sank into the deep mud. All was empty and silent, save for the soft whisper of changing curre
nts. For the marshes always were, but it was the Dark Lady who brought them to life.
The Mendydd were towering hills in those days, for no hand had begun to take their ores, and they cast their long shadows across the low marshes. Under those hills, in a place where land became bog, and bog became marsh and then open water, lay the reed ringed darkness of a shadowed lake. High above all, the changing cycles of the moon marked the slow passage of time, her silver face reflected unseen in the quiet waters. And so it went for cycles without end, and there was no change. The same turning of the moon. The same flowing of currents. The same silence. The same flickering patterns of light and dark. The same ancient lingering marsh.
But then the currents began to shift and change in the growing and dying reeds. Endless turnings of tides carved new channels in the black mud. Eddies became currents, currents became flows, flows turned and twisted back upon themselves. One moontide as the surface rippled beneath the full silver face in the heavens, the face reflecting back from the depths looked up, and recognized what it saw, and the waters were living and aware, and they called themselves ‘She.’ She saw the marsh water that surrounded her, and she called it Llyn y Cysgodion, and it was her home. At first the marsh knew her only as Llyf, which means Current, but with the coming of the first folk she was called Morwyn. In later tales she and those who followed her were often called Vivian, Giver of Life.
She rose from the depths as a darkly shimmering mist. Her face was as the reflection of the silver moon on the dark rippling waters of the flowing current; her eyes not so much black as deep, fathomless. She was short, little more than an arm span in height, and slightly built. Her skin was the color of shadows. Her long black hair fell to below her knees, where it disappeared rather than ended, and it swirled about her like the flow of the currents. She was clothed in marsh reeds, and her song was the sound of deep waters. Llyf was one with the water, and standing reeds, and the black mud. In that moment she knew she was the Dark Lady of Llyn y Cysgodion, though that was her only awareness, and she felt nothing but the slow passage of time.
In the ages that followed, the slow, inexorable flow of the marsh currents stirred something inside Llyf. Her awareness began to grow, and she knew of things that had not yet come to be; living things that would crawl and swim, walk and fly.
From the waters and the mud she called forth the marsh spirits: fur and feather, leaf and fin. They each bore within themselves the power to beget and to conceive, and they called forth more of their own kind, and the marsh swarmed with the new currents of Llyf. They danced with her in the channels of the marsh as the silver moon waned and grew, and the ancient stars shone overhead. simplest folk to very knowledge, and invited them to the gentle dance.
~
Deep in the waters of the flowing channels, where the primeval reeds stood in rich black mud, a new plant appeared and opened itself to her song. Llyf bent low over the dark waters. She reached forth a gentle hand to touch the tiny shoots, and she knew in herself it was Bog Moss. The new stems twined themselves around her fingers, growing in a soft green along the length of her arm, with thin mossy leaves like the finest thread spiraling around each stem. Finally small pink As they came forth, from the first, last, Llyf sang to them the same flowers appeared, and Llyf welcomed Bog Moss to the marsh. Then, for the first time in the countless ages of her existence, Llyf spoke to another being.
“Welcome, Mwswgl,” she said. “The marshes rejoice in your presence. But they do not need you. Learn what that means, and join us in the dance of life.” Mwswgl loved the song of Llyf, and took her place in the way of things. Mosses and ferns, flowers and shrubs came forth from the marsh earth. They lived together, and they sang the same songs.
Above the quiet waters, hovering upon the tips of reeds, flashes of blue and green appeared in the summer sun as it filtered through the new branches of island trees. A blur of beating wings darted through the air. Llyf raised a cupped palm, and a flying thing landed upon her slender fingers. Within herself she knew it was Dragonfly. It sat gingerly in her hand; tiny legs tickling her olive skin. The soft, clear wings fluttered with the notes of her song, and Llyf welcomed Dragonfly to the marsh. She was getting used to speaking, for spirits were appearing here and there all around the Lake of Shadows.
“Welcome, Draig Athar,” Llyf said. “The marshes rejoice in your presence. But they do not need you. Learn what that means, and join us in the dance.” Draig loved the song of Llyf, and took her place in the way of things. Butterflies and beetles, spiders and bees came forth among the reeds. They lived together, and sang the same songs.
Other ages passed. Under the blue sky and white clouds there was a wild cry. Talons and feathered wings crossed in front of the sun, the shadow frightening those who swam in the waters or walked upon the bogs. Into Llyf’s voice fell the tone of command. “Hush, loud one, be still.” She lifted a dark forearm over her head and raised her shadowed eyes to the heavens. The bird dropped in slow circles and landed upon her arm, stretched and folded its wings, and stroked its beak upon her skin. In the depths of her being, Llyf knew this was Marsh Harrier, and felt what she had not felt before: a sense of power set apart to itself, and a scent of danger. But there was a beauty and nobility in Marsh Harrier as well. “Welcome, Gwalch,” Llyf said. For a moment she hesitated, sensing something strange, then continued, “The marshes rejoice in your presence, but they do not need you.” Gwalch cocked her head, and scratched under her wing with a long, curving talon. Llyf’s voice tightened. She had never known this strange feeling in all the long eons. She was discovering emotion.
“They do not need you, Gwalch,” she said. “Learn what this means, and join us in the dance.” Gwalch flew off to the top of a nearby tree. She did find the song of Llyf lovely, and decided she was willing to take her place in the way of things. Sparrows and cormorants, ravens and corncrakes came forth in the clear skies. They lived together, and sang the same songs. But Gwalch brooded.
“Do not need me?” she said aloud. “The marsh itself bears my name!” And she felt the marshes needed her indeed, and it made her feel important. And somewhat lonely.
Through the turning cycles of the ages Llyf walked upon the waters of the marshes, changing the seasons in the bogs and upon the land. The marsh folk grew in number, and came to love her. They no longer called her Llyf, but Morwyn, which in the old tongue means “Maiden.” For she had become one of them, and learned to love as well as they. Even Gwalch would visit from time to time, but she continued to brood, and her eyes were always veiled.
One day Morwyn was sitting on a tussock of reeds talking with a family of Marsh Hens, when she saw a glint of silver on the surface of the water. It was not a fish, for it had no fins or scales. Nor did it have feathers, or beak. It was covered with hair, like Morwyn’s, but from head to toe. The hair was short, and a shiny sort of silver brown. It had long whiskers sprouting from both sides of a tiny nose. It was swimming on its back, and it seemed to be smiling. Slipping from the tussock, Morwyn swam out to the strange creature. She stroked its slick fur, and they laughed together. In her heart, Morwyn knew this was Otter.
“Hello, Dwrgi,” she said as tread water beside the newcomer. “The marshes rejoice in your presence. But they do not need you. Learn what this means, and join us in the dance.”
Dwrgi loved the song of Morwyn, but found her words too serious. She swam to the great mud bank, climbed to the top, and with a cry of delight threw herself over the edge, landing on her belly and sliding all the way down to the water, which she entered with a loud splash. Dwrgi didn’t much care whether the marshes needed her or not. Yet Dwrgi took her place in the way of things. Foxes and deer, bears and badgers came forth upon the earth. They lived together and tried to sing the same song, but it was becoming stranger to their ears.
And time still passed. More and more, each of the marsh folk were drawn to their own kind. They began to sing their own songs, and they danced together less and less. Often they ignored, sometimes t
hey feared, other folk. They no longer truly understood one another’s speech, and sometimes, when food was scarce, they began to prey upon one another. For the veiled look in Gwalch’s eyes had spread across many; the careless look in Dwrgi’s across others. Morwyn grew sad and quiet. She walked less and less upon the marshes or over the bogs. She spent more and more time on the tiny, shadowed island of Ynys y Cysgodion in the midst of the lake. Shadows drew around the Dark Lady, and the marshes, too, grew darker.
~
Through the ages that followed Morwyn often saw her own reflection in the marsh waters. But although the marsh folk each carried something of her nature, she noticed there never was one who looked quite like her. Then, one day, near the end of this tale, the world changed. Morwyn was sitting on a branch of a marsh alder that hung out over the mossy bank, reclining back against the old trunk, softly humming her song and watching water spiders play, when,
“Are you Morwyn?”
The voice was so soft she thought she had dreamt it. The water spiders knew her name, so it could not have been one of them. She was still puzzling over it when the voice came again, a bit louder and a little closer, from just behind her.
“Are you Morwyn?”
There stood a being Morwyn had never seen before. There had not been a new one in such a long time, and she could not remember having called this one forth. It looked very nearly like her, yet . . .
The new creature stood a head taller than Morwyn. Her skin was the color of starlight. Curling silver hair fell across her shoulders and over her breasts. She was not clothed in marsh reeds as Morwyn had been. She was naked. Her eyes were blue and piercing. Her voice was swift and light, like the waters that fell along the slopes of the Mendydds.
Again she asked, “Are you Morwyn?”
Morwyn reached out with her mind for a name, but heard only her own. I am like you, came a voice to her awareness.
“I am Morwyn,” the Lady of Cysgodion finally answered. But there was a questioning in her voice. Who are you, strange one?
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