Tales of Avalon

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Tales of Avalon Page 11

by Walter William Melnyk


  On darkest nights

  when creatures in the marshes creep, beware the glowing lights . . .

  The paddle slipped from her hands and slid away into the darkness among the reeds. The lights encircled her boat, still calling to her in her mind. Were there black, wiry, moving shapes behind the lights? She narrowed her eyes to the merest slits, trying to focus in the dark, but she could not see. Then, slowly, her boat began to move, gliding soundlessly forward as if being drawn by some unseen force.

  Now it is well known the Ellylldan are spirit lights of the swamps and fens. Some say they are anguished souls of the lost dead, unable to find their way to the lands of peace, who haunt the marshes at night, drawing unwary travelers to a dark and solitary death in the lost backwaters where no one ever goes. Some say they are corpse-lights, death omens, appearing in a place where some tragedy is about to occur. Most believe the Ellylldan to be unearthly fairy-lights, with evil intent toward human beings, luring travelers from trusted paths into treacherous waters where they are never seen again.

  Perhaps it was Tresglen’s desire never to be seen again by Oriog that preserved her from deathly fright. Perhaps also that she was a marsh daughter, familiar enough with eerie tales to find them intriguing as well as fearsome. Do not follow the lights! Everyone who traveled in the marshes knew that. But as her boat began to move forward a strange calm came over Tresglen, though her paddle was lost somewhere in the reeds behind her. She was not propelling the boat, yet it moved in the darkness, following the light in front of her as others continued to circle around.

  Tresglen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Who are you?” she asked. There was no answer, but the lights glowed brighter for a moment, as if in response.

  Then, in her mind, Follow us, Tresglen. Follow our lights.

  Follow them! It seemed she had no choice. Tresglen took several slow breaths, trying to ease the tension that had been building within her. Reeds had closed in all around her boat, and they hissed along the side as she continued forward. The Ellylldan did not seem malevolent toward her, neither did they seem friendly. They just were. There. In the deep darkness.

  “Who are you?” she asked again. Still no answer except the insistent, Follow. Follow us, in her mind. She had no idea how long she had been following, or where she was. She suspected the shores of Ynys y Niwl lay behind her, that she was heading north and west into the north marshes as she had planned. But really she did not know where she was, or where the Ellylldan were leading her.

  While she was thinking this, a gentle breeze began blowing from the northwest. Suddenly the mists parted, and the dome of the starry heavens appeared above her! Without the moon, the stars themselves provided enough light to see by, especially after such deep darkness. The high reeds cast starshadows across Tresglen’s face. She looked about her with new sight, and saw the Ellylldan surrounding her boat.

  The tales tell little of the appearance of the Ellylldan, for they are usually seen only by their lights in the dreary darkness. What Tresglen saw filled her with wonder, and perhaps you will not believe it yourself. Around her boat, drifting just above the waters of the marsh, Tresglen saw thirteen little children all dressed in delicate white robes that drifted and swirled in the night breeze. Their faces shone with elf-light, and each held high a silver lantern in which a white candle burned. Each was the height of a roe deer, though they seemed taller for their hovering above the tops of the reeds. They gazed upon her with purposeful intent, but seemingly without interest.

  Tresglen looked at each, from one to the other, around the circle. “They’re lovely,” she said, under her breath. Again the lanterns seemed to glow brightly for a moment as if they had heard. This time she almost thought she heard the words, spoken, almost sung, like liquid silver: Come, Tresglen, come and follow us!

  Then she remembered. The Ellylldan have no personality, no actual will or desires of their own. They cannot have a conversation, can only express the will of the purpose for which they have been sent. Their childlike eyes were gentle, but empty. The fine hair rose on Tresglen’s arms and the back of her neck, for this realization was more frightening than an encounter with intentional evil. One can confront the most fearsome of night demons and goblins, for their expression of evil is human-like, therefore potentially controllable. But the idea of an impersonal spirituality existing in human form can be unnerving. To Tresglen the experience was fascinating as well as fearsome, and she yearned to be able to speak with them. She knew too well what it is like to be without a voice. Still, all they could say was, persistently, Come, come, come.

  As quickly as the starlight had appeared, it vanished. The marsh mists rolled in from the west and the darkness was again complete, the Ellylldan once more invisible except for the eerie light of their lanterns dancing above the reeds. And Tresglen’s boat continued onward into the marsh.

  All the following day her boat glided on through darker and deeper marshes. The mists were so thick she could not see the prow of her small boat, nor was there any sign of the lights in the pearl gray fog.

  They reappeared when darkness fell on the second night. Tresglen had slept through much of the featureless boredom of the afternoon, and she was strangely relieved to wake after dark to the familiar presence of the Ellylldan. By then she knew they would not speak to her except to bid her follow them, but she began to speak to them, hoping they might understand.

  “I know not who you really are,” she said aloud, “or what your business with me might be. But I trust you, for you seem to me fairer than my mother’s tales once warned. If you have a purpose for me, and wish me well, I will follow you.” She smiled bleakly, remembering she had no choice in the matter. But of course she had decided on her own to flee into the marshes, so in some way following the ghostly lantern bearers did seem to be of own her choosing.

  Near midnight, several things happened all at once. The mists lifted, revealing once again the bright array of stars. There must have been a thin sliver of new moon by then but, if so, it had set hours before. Lit by the starlight, the Ellylldan appeared again in their billowing white garments, elf-children bearing silver lanterns and circling the little boat. A moment later they all emerged from the marsh reeds into a wide lake. The water was black under the night sky, and still as glass, the stars reflecting so magically from its surface that it was impossible to tell the heavens from the lake. An island lay in the middle of the waters like a great, dark shadow. Tresglen had no way of knowing it was Ynys y Cysgodion, for no one in her clan had ever seen it. Had she known, she would have been truly frightened, for Cysgodion was rumored to be the home of a strange sorceress known as the Dark Lady.

  As the boat drifted over the quiet waters of the Lake of Shadows, the Ellylldan unwound their circle into two lines, forming an avenue to the shore. It truly was an island of shadows. Gnarled and bent yews grew to the water’s edge, dripping with ferns and mosses. In the ancient tangle of forest that stretched beyond the shore lay the barrow tombs of the ancestors of the marshes; Tresglen could not see them, but she could feel their presence. As the boat drew itself up onto the mossy bank, the Dark Lady emerged from the shadows of the forest. She was a slight figure, shorter than the tales suggested. Her olive skin blended so well with her dark robe it was not possible to tell whether one could actually see her face, or merely its suggestion. Long black hair fell about her shoulders to her waist, where it seemed simply to fade from view rather than come to an end. She held a hand out, palm turned upward, in greeting.

  “Welcome, Tresglen,” she said. Her voice was the sound of rushing marsh currents. “I am Vivian, Lady of this island and of the marshes.”

  As Tresglen stepped from her boat the Ellylldan faded away into the night. She looked after them as they disappeared from view, across the lake and back into the marsh. The night was silent, lit by the burning stars overhead, filled with starshadows. Finally Vivian spoke again.

  “They do my bidding. They are an expression of the will of the mars
hes.”

  “In the tales they are dark and ugly,” said Tresglen. “And they are evil. They hate the Dwyrtrygydd, and lure us to our death in the marshes.”

  “Do you believe this?” Vivian asked. “Now that you have seen them?”

  “They are fair and bright, and they seem like children. I do not know what to think,” said Tresglyn.

  Vivian motioned to Tresglyn to sit beside her on a fallen tree by the water’s edge. “Like all things of the spirit,” she said, “They appear as they are expected to by those who see them. “To people with dark hearts the Ellylldan are frightening. Some folk can never see them at all. But to one such as you, their true nature is revealed. I suspected it would be so. I summoned you, Tresglen of the Dwyrtrygydd. The lights of the Ellylldan brought you to me.”

  Tresglyn moved away on the moss covered log. “The old tales also warn about women who live alone in the wilds.” She looked into Vivian’s dark eyes, which were filled with ancient knowledge.

  “And do you still believe those ancient tales, marsh daughter, now that you have seen me?” She held Tresglen in her gaze.

  “No. No, Lady, I do not. But why have you summoned me? For what purpose? And how did you find me?"

  Vivian smiled. “So many questions! It shows you are regaining your wits after your strange journey. But first you will want shelter and refreshment. Come.” She stood, and in her upturned palm there appeared a glow of marsh-wisp, much like the lights of the Ellylldan. She started down a path toward an opening in the old forest. Tresglen rose, and followed, not yet daring to wonder who this lady of the marshes might be.

  The ancient forest soon gave way to a wide bog where mists hung and swirled in ghostly patches above the wet ground. Vivian followed the way in the darkness with the ease of long use, a darker shadow in the darkness just ahead of Tresglen. Suddenly, out in the bog on both sides of the path there were lights again.

  Tresglen touched Vivian’s shoulder. “It is the Ellylldan. They’ve returned,” she whispered.

  Vivian stopped. “No, daughter,” she answered. “The Ellylldan have not been summoned again. This is a natural doing of the bogs.”

  “But they look so much alike!”

  “And so do many confuse them. The bog plants die and return to the earth, as we do. Sometimes, at night, the spirits of these plants appear for a time before passing from our world.”

  Tresglen stared in wonder at the soft, shimmering lights. “It seems the world is stranger than ever I knew,” she said.

  Vivian smiled. “And it seems your training has already begun!”

  “My training?” Tresglen asked.

  “Come, daughter. Shelter and tea first.” Vivian turned, and continued down the old path. Tresglen followed, finding her own voice in the many questionings of her mind.

  Daylight had begun to filter through the mists by the time they reached Vivian’s hut. It was small, not a dozen paces across, a roundhouse made of mud and wattle, and a thatched roof covered with marsh mosses. A light wisp of smoke came through the roof, telling of a cooking fire within. Inside, the hut was warm and dry, though the firelight did not fully dispel the shadows. A young girl of perhaps twelve summers was pouring tea from a small pot. She turned and smiled at them as they entered.

  “This is the daughter of my blood,” Vivian said. “She is called Bendith, but one day she, too, will be known as Vivian.”

  Vivian must be older than she seems, thought Tresglen, who was herself not much older than Bendith.

  “Is that a title, then?” Tresglen asked, returning Bendith’s smile.

  “A title and a name both,” Vivian answered. “from ancient times when the first Lady of Ynys y Cysgodion emerged from the marsh waters.”

  Tresglen turned toward Vivian, gasping in surprise. “This . . . This is Ynys y Cysgodion?” she asked.

  “It is, daughter. It is the Isle of Shadows.”

  “Then the tales are true,” said Tresglen with wonder in her voice, and not a little fear. “You are the Dark Lady.”

  Vivian laughed, a quiet, pleasant laugh. “So they say. But do not worry, daughter, I am human as you are.”

  “But the Dark Lady is immortal! She is the creator of the marshes!”

  Again Vivian laughed. “There are many tales about me. Nearly all of them are untrue, coming from imagination built upon too much fear or too much love. No one is the creator of the marshes, for they have been here always. And I am as mortal as you. The first of my grandmothers emerged from these waters in ancient times, and witnessed the coming of the first marsh folk of fur and feather, leaf and stone. In the beginning she was called Llyf, for the marsh currents from which she came, and later she was known as Morwyn. In time those who loved her named her Vivian, giver of life. Ever after my grandmothers have been known by this name, as will Bendith, when it comes time for me to leave this world.” Her eyes turned away, and she sipped her tea of soothing herbs. The three women sat in silence for a long while, listening to the cries of harriers and marsh hens.

  “Why did you call me, my Lady?” Tresglen asked, finally.

  It took a few moments for Vivian to answer, as if she were returning from a far place in a dream. “I heard your spirit calling over the waters as you fled Ynys Calchfaen,” she answered. “I knew you to be a daughter of the marshes, and that you would be the first priestess to join us here. Bendith and I are to be alone no longer. It is time to begin our community.”

  “Priestess?” asked Tresglen. “I am no priestess!” In her mind she added, I do not even know what a priestess is! But she did not say it aloud.

  Vivian smiled. “When you do learn what a priestess is, daughter, you will know that you are one.”

  Again the three women sat silently around the small fire, feeding it a bit of wood now and then, and refreshing their tea. They bothered not about the slow passage of time. When darkness returned they shared a bit of barley porridge, spread out their sleeping furs, and lay down together, side by side, near the fire. It seemed to Tresglen that Vivian and Bendith fell instantly into a deep sleep. But she lay awake in the shadows, wondering many things. What did the Dark Lady see in her to think she could be a priestess? And there seemed to be no male on the island, so where did Bendith come from? For that matter, where did the barley come from? Cysgodion was filled with mysteries, and they swirled about her in the darkness as did the mists outside.

  Vivian spoke a strange word in her sleep, and far out in the marshes the Ellylldan began again to stir, for there were other priestesses to call. Tresglyn sighed and drifted off to sleep. The realm of Affalon had begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  VI. The Visit of the Bendith y Mamau

  Once, a very long time ago in the far reaches of the western marshes, a daughter was born to a young woman who lived with her husband’s clan of fisherfolk. The woman’s name was Llefrith and she called her daughter Teg, for the child was truly fair. This frightened the clan members, for they knew too well the ways of y Tylwyth Teg, whom the marsh folk also called Bendith y Mamau.

  “’Tis a dangerous thing to be mocking the subjects of Gwyn ap Nudd,” said her husband’s mother to Llefrith. “Sure they be called Bendith y Mamau, but they be not ones for young mothers to trifle with.” She spat in the four directions. “Only the fairies may be called Teg. Ye’ll have them comin’ for yourself and the bairn both, if you’re not more respectful.” She spit again, a charm of protection, at Llefrith’s feet. “They’re a true Mother’s Blessing is what they are,” she said, hoping such flattery might avert disaster.

  “Tush, Ma,” answered Llefrith. “Be savin’ your spittle for more important things. Gwyn may be lord of y Tylwyth Teg, but he’ll be havin’ no power over me or mine. And indeed my own little Teg is fair as they.” Llefrith held little Teg at arm’s length and danced with her around the hearth fire. “Yours is the only mother’s blessing we’ll be havin’ around here,” she said. “If you’ll give it, that is.”

  “We’ve had enough bad luc
k already,” said the old woman. It’s not right ye be askin’ fairies for more.”

  Llefrith’s husband, Dubhydd, had been out fishing in the open waters just before the child came, and was lost in a storm, disappearing without a trace of him or his boat. Three full moons had passed, with Llefrith living in the huts of her husband’s clan. She found solace in the daughter that was born to her, taking heart from the bairn’s fair face, which reminded her of her lost love. Every day when the weather was fair she would take little Teg to the mooring that looked out upon the western waters.

  “Look away out there, little Teg,” she would say to her daughter as she stared into the setting sun. “Your Da’s out there somewhere. He’s out there beyond the sea, but he’ll be comin’ back for us one day. I swear it to ye, my little one. I swear it.” Even so, Llefrith’s words were not in her heart, and in her heart she wept. When there was a storm on the sea, she went not near the water.

  It was mostly late at night, alone with Teg in the small hut Dubhydd had built for them just before he left, that fear would grip Llefrith’s heart and crush further her dying hope. While her daughter slept she lay awake, hearing over and again the old tales her own Ma had told her, the warnings and reproaches hurled at her each day by Dubhydd’s grieving mother.

  She cried out into the dark, “Oh, Genwair, I know ye miss your son as I do, and there is a pain in your heart. But why must ye be so hard? The old tales left me when my husband did. If Gwyn could not send him back safe from the storm, neither can the old god send y Tylwyth Teg, frightful or fair, to cause me more grief.” She stood up in defiance, and challenged the darkness:

  “There will be no Bendith y Mamau come to this home while I am in it,” she swore, her quiet voice firm with determination.

  After that, Llefrith slept only fitfully until the first light of day.

  In the morning, when marsh fowl greeted the rising sun, Llefrith took her daughter to the hut of Genwair and Curyll to share in their morning meal. Unlike Genwair, whose words multiplied with her grief, the death of his son drove Curyll to a bitter silence. He sat voiceless and uncaring while his wife scolded Llefrith.

 

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