~
For some reason she never took the name of Vivian. “It doesn’t fit me,” she would say. But the priestesses knew she still grieved in her heart. For her little Teg, and for the Lady of Affalon who set out to search for her so long ago. Every spring when the air turned warmer and the stars of a new season shone in the sky, she remembered that night of horrid enchantment on Bragwair Knoll, and the visit of the Bendith y Mamau, and Teg, her bairn.
One day Llefrith was walking by herself along the shore of Ynys y Cysgodion, where the marsh grasses grew particularly close to land. The mists were especially heavy, and Fia had implored her, as always, not to go walking alone. As always, Llefrith had brushed aside Fia’s concerns.
“It does not trouble me to be alone,” she said. “That is something I got used to long ago.”
Fia knew when it was useless to protest, and watched the Lady as she disappeared into the mist. I will have tea waiting for her when she returns, Fia thought.
And so Llefrith found herself walking along the shore of Cysgodion, alone with her old memories, when she thought she heard the sound of a paddle out in the mist.
You’re an old woman, she told herself. Old women are always hearing what isn’t there. Or not hearing what is.
But Llefrith had lived on Cysgodion long enough to know the sound of a marsh paddle. She stepped back from the shore several paces, peered into the mist, and waited as the sound became closer and more distinct. As often happens in the heavy Affalon mists, the boat appeared all at once, along with the soft scraping sound of its hull as it beached on the shore. A dark lady, somewhat younger, it seemed, than Llefrith, lay down her paddle and stepped from the boat. Her skin was olive, her eyes dark, and hair black as midnight fell about her shoulders. But about her were the airs of maturity, and she bore herself as one who was used to being obeyed. At first Llefrith could not believe her eyes. the two women stood facing each other, perhaps twenty paces apart, as the gentle marsh current washed upon the shore and tatters of mist swirled between them. Llefrith was the first to speak.
“Vivian,” she whispered.
The woman from the boat was clearly exhausted. “Yes, it is Vivian,” she said. “Who are you? I don’t remember a priestess your age. Take me to Gwennyth immediately!”
“My Lady,” Llefrith answered, “Gwennyth lives not in this world. She has been gone from us these many cycles.” She wished to move to Vivian, to hold her, to rejoice in her presence. But she was rooted to the spot where she stood. There was too much to fear, to much at stake.
“Then who now takes her place?” Vivian asked. “Who cares for Affalon in my stead?”
Llefrith dared a step forward. “Gwennyth was made Lady of Affalon long ago, Vivian, at the same time I was made a priestess. She died, also long ago. You never came back to us, my Lady. Then, when Gwennyth passed from this world I was asked to take her place. I am Lady of Affalon, and have been so for many cycles of the sun. Until this very moment, at least.” She fell to her knees, but Vivian knelt beside her.
“Then you are now Vivian, in my place,” she said.
“No, my Lady. The name is yours, I could not take it.”
Vivian gazed intently into the face of the strange woman before her, trying to see something familiar, some clue to her identity. But she could not. At last, she must ask the fateful question.
“Then who are you, who claim to take my place in Affalon?”
With a flood of tears the answer came. “My Lady, you do not know me! I am Llefrith, of the west marshes. I am she whose bairn ye left to seek those ages ago.”
A terrible wail escaped Vivian’s lips. “Aye, it is true then! I am too late! The Goddess forgive me, I have fulfilled my task, but I have return too late!” She fell over in a swoon, caught in Llefrith’s arms, and the two sat together in joy and anguished sorrow on the shore of Ynys y Cysgodion.
Llefrith, now the older of the two, rocked Vivian and wiped tears from her eyes. “My Lady, you have been gone a long, long time. Much has changed, many have grown old and left this world. But you seem no older than when I saw you last.”
The details of conversation helped Vivian to compose herself. “I told you once,” she reminded Llefrith, “that time can be different in the halls of Gwyn. By my reckoning, I have been gone a few days only. Forgive me, Llefrith! You were young and hopeful when I left, and I have come back too late.”
Silence again between the two, until finally Vivian spoke. “Llefrith . . .” a hesitation, then, “Forgive me, my Lady. I have brought something you will want to see, but I know not how you will receive this now.” She went to the boat, and lifted a tiny bundle, wrapped in a soft cradle blanket. Llefrith heard the quiet cry, and her heart broke at the same time that it leapt for joy. She ran to Vivian, her eyes blinded by tears, and took the small bundle into her arms. Inside the folds of the blanket, softly crying from fatigue but with eyes wide in wonder, was a fair, beautiful bairn – her bairn, no older than when she had last seen her, a lifetime ago!
“Teg! Oh Teg, me own fair bairn! Teg, it’s you, you’ve come back to me at last!” She kissed the face of the little bairn and hugged her to her breast, before the world turned and swirled around her, and she fell to the ground in a faint. But even as she lost consciousness her heart was filled with joy, for little Teg had come home.
~
Some time later Llefrith awoke in the warmth of her own bed, a fire going on the hearth, and many of the priestesses gathered around her. Beside her, snug in the crook of her arm, lay Teg, fast asleep.
“I’m old enough now to be your great grandma, little one,” said Llefrith, wiping away new tears. “We’ll have to get one of these young priestesses to care for ye.”
“She’s your own bairn, and your own responsibility, and that’s that,” said Fia in mock reproof, handing her some hot tea. “You’ll get some help from us, but that’s all you’ll get.” They all had a good laugh at Fia’s well meant insolence.
“That is no way to address the Lady of Affalon,” Vivian remonstrated from beside the bed. Llefrith frowned at her. “It must be so,” Vivian said to her. “It has passed from me to you already. My time is over.”
A strange look remained on Vivian’s face. “Lady?” Llefrith asked, holding Teg even more closely, if that were possible. “What is it?”
“I have something else for you, Llefrith. Something else that I found, quite unexpectedly in the land of fairy. It will be hard for you to accept, I fear. I was reluctant to reveal this to you yesterday at the boat."
Llefrith sat up in bed, puzzled. She took Vivian’s hand. “What is it, Lady? I am so filled with joy at the wonder of Teg’s return in my old age. What can be stranger than that?
It was hard to tell whether joy or pain filled Vivian’s eyes as she looked to the door of the hut. “Now,” she said quietly to the young priestess standing there who, in response, drew back the hide that covered the door. Sunlight streamed through the opening, crossing the center of the hut and falling upon the bed where Llefrith sat with Teg in her arms. Outside there was the soft music of the song of birds. For a moment a shadow stood in the doorway, and it seemed as though all the world paused in disbelief. He entered as though walking on the path of sunlight. A young man, with the powerful muscles and bronze skin of a fisherman. He stood before the bed where Teg slept and Llefrith sat in shock.
“Hello, Dear One,” he said, tears of disbelief in his eyes. “I’m back.”
For Dubhydd, too, had come home, as she had once sworn he would.
Chapter Thirteen
VII. The Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint
Targh was a young boy of no more than five summers, which is to say he was very much like young boys had ever been before him, or are likely ever to be again while the ages continue to turn. One fine morning, at the time of the year when the breezes shift from northwest to southwest and begin to warm, he was playing in the shallows on the south coast of Ynys Mawr, where there has ever been open water rather than m
arsh. His father, Caddoc, was repairing a fishing net in the bright sun, so Targh was left to his own explorations, as long as he did not wade out above his knees, or wander from his father’s sight. So it was that in a small inlet, among a very small stand of cattails, young Targh found something quite big, and very green.
It was the loud, deep croak he heard first. A frog! he thought. And a big one, by the sound of it. He turned his head this way and that to discover the direction in which the prize lay. One more loud croak, and he had it! Just off to his right, out in the cattails. Perhaps ten paces into the black mud. And surely no more than two paces out of Tada’s sight! He looked back to where his father was working on the net, waving to him to establish his presence in the allowed range of wandering. Caddoc returned his concentration to mending the net just as the third loud c-r-o-a-k came to Targh’s young ears. For a young boy of five summers there can never be any debate in such matters, and Targh knew at once exactly what he must do.
It was sitting on a fallen log just past the cattails, enjoying the warm sun. Targh became absolutely still and made himself as small as possible on the ground. He had seen his father and uncles hunt before, and was copying them, but what was about to happen owed as much to instinct as anything else. Targh watch, and waited. A black fly landed on his neck and it was agony to ignore it, but he kept still, proud of his hunting skills. The big frog showed no signs of moving in his direction, or anywhere else for that matter. Croak. Targh watched the frog’s throat grow bigger and smaller as it breathed. He matched his own breathing rhythm to that to that of the frog’s. Every so often the frog blinked its big, bulging eyes. Every so often Targh blinked his own gray eyes, which he had narrowed to tiny slits of concentration. The frog’s tongue shot out to catch a passing fly. Targh licked his lips. The moments slid slowly by. One of them was going to have to move. The boy risked a glance over his shoulder to where his father was working, head bent over the net, hands carefully retying knots. And then Targh began to creep to his right. Slowly. On his stomach. With his arms and legs splayed out. Over the soft, damp, black earth. Either he was very good at creeping, or the frog was too busy with its own meditations to take notice, but it was working! Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved away from the frog’s line of vision. C-r-o-a-k.
Targh’s sideways maneuver put the stand of cattails between him and the frog, so he could no longer quite see his prey. So much the better! It felt deliciously stealthy to be hidden from view, preparing to pounce out of the reeds. He eased himself forward and met a new obstacle: the mud. Like the earth he had been creeping on, it was moist and black. But it was not at all soft. It was sticky. In truth, it was much more than moist. It was wet. Very wet. And it oozed. About a young boy’s body length into the cattails, the black muck sucked at Targh’s arms and legs until he could no longer creep. He got up on his hands and knees, water dripping from his belly, covered in the sticky, oozing, sucking mud from his chin to his toes. His nose itched. He raised a hand to scratch it, looked warily at the muck on his fingers, and rubbed the tip of his nose up and down on a cattail stalk instead. He hoped the frog was still there. Croak. Yes!
Just a bit further. He could see the frog! Still sitting on the old fallen tree and looking away from the young hunter. Targh parted the last of the cattails just a bit and was ready to spring, when he realized just how big the old frog was. Not that he was suddenly afraid. His hunting instincts were far too engaged for that! But he sat back on his haunches and looked at his hands which, like the rest of him, were not quite five summers old. Croak . . . Croak. They were too small for the job. He slipped his mud-soaked tunic over his head and held it out in front of him. Fortunately for Targh he had no idea how silly he then looked: white as the winter snow from shoulder to loins, with five appendages sticking out in different directions, as black as midnight. But his eyes were fixed upon the green creature in front of him, for he was a hunter.
Long moments passed as Targh quietly flexed, tightened, and relaxed each muscle in preparation for the leap. It was the moment in which a wildcat’s tail twitches nervously from side to side, its rump swaying back and forth as it shifts its weight from foot to foot, finding the best balance point for the pounce. Targh had no tail, of course, but his rump did sway, just a bit.
Croak.
Croak.
He leaped! It was not a graceful arc, but it was
effective. Targh’s arms extended out ahead of him spreading the tunic, his feet somehow found traction in the mud and launched him into the air. As he came down upon the log he folded the tunic around the old frog, and clutched it to his breast. Got you! he thought, triumphantly!
The one problem with his plan was that he was now in mid-air with nothing below him but black swamp muck. He landed on his right side, did a full roll, and came to a rest face down, with his precious bundle struggling and kicking beneath him. It was his first catch ever. He spit out a mouthful of swamp, and laughed out loud.
Caddoc was still working on the net when his naked, muddy son suddenly appeared, holding his equally muddy and squirming tunic out before him.
“Tada! Look what I got!”
Fortunately for Targh, Caddoc was also a hunter and
saw immediately what his son had been up to. Had they been back in the village, Caddoc might have chastised him for getting so dirty. But out in the wilds, on a fishing expedition, there develops a special relationship between father and son. Caddoc smiled and put down the net, sitting back on the ground.
“Well, Targh,” he said, “You’ve had a fine morning’s hunting I see!”
Targh beamed, and ran to his father, jumping up and down with delight.
“I caught him! I caught him!” He sat down beside his father and recounted every moment of the hunt, while Caddoc listened with genuine interest. He waited until Targh ran out of breath before speaking.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.
Targh looked up at him, wide eyes puzzled.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” his father asked with a smile.
A look of solemn importance came over Targh’s face. He sat up straighter, and arranged the bundle carefully in his lap. He took a deep breath, holding the right side of his lower lip between his teeth, and slowly pulled back an edge of the tunic. A large green head with a wide mouth and bulging, black eyes peered up at him, its throat quietly pulsing in and out. There were several long, silent moments as father and son experienced together the awe of the situation.
“Well,” said Caddoc finally, “that’s truly a big old frog.”
Targh gave a serious nod of agreement. It was. And he had caught it.
“I’m gonna take him home and keep him right by my bed,” he announced.
Caddoc pursed his lips and cocked his head as if in serious thought. “Think you should?” he asked.
Targh was fully attuned to the onset of parental disapproval. He quickly went on the defensive, folding the old frog back into his tunic. “He’s mine!” he demanded. “I caught him, and I’m takin’ him home!”
“Now hold on,” Caddoc said, raising both hands in protest. “I didn’t say you couldn’t keep him.”
Targh breathed a bit easier.
“It’s just that, well, look at the size of him. He must be an important frog!”
Targh carefully felt the bulging outlines of the frog inside the tunic. He nodded again. It truly was a big frog. But he’s mine, and I’m keepin’ him! he thought to himself.
“He sure is big,” his father said again. Then he looked straight at Targh, and in his best conspiratorial voice he said, “How do we know he’s not the Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint?”
“Who?” Targh whispered.
“Shhhh.” Caddoc looked carefully all round them. Targh nervously followed his father’s gaze. “We’d better be careful,” Caddoc said. “He might already have his warriors out looking for him.” Targh’s eyebrows scrunched together as his careful gaze scanned the reed banks.
Caddoc hel
ped his son to his feet. For a moment he considered Targh’s muddy nakedness, then decided fixing that could wait until later. “Come on,” he said, taking the young hunter by the hand, I want to show you something.”
Together they climbed the low rise that ran the length of Ynys Mawr. It was Targh’s favorite spot. From there he could see the slopes of the Mendydd hills above the north marshes or, in the other direction, far across, the shallow waters of the south marshes and the highlands of Crib Polborfa.
“Over there,” Caddoc said, pointing westward.
On the horizon, at the boundary between the shallow waters and the great sea, rose the high cone of Ynys Bryn Llyffaint. Targh had seen the high hill often, of course, but he had never been there. It had always seemed a mysterious place to his child’s imagination. They sat down together and gazed at the hill. Caddoc had brought a dry tarp with him from the boat. He draped it around his son’s shoulders, though it was now nearly mid-day and the sun was warm.
“Have you never heard the tale of the Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint?” Caddoc asked quietly.
Targh loved stories, but he had never heard this one. “No, Tada,” he whispered.
Caddoc smiled. He knew his son had never heard the tale, for he was about to make it up then and there. “Hold him carefully, Targh,” (Targh held the precious bundle carefully in his two hands, hunching his shoulders over it in protection.) “And I’ll tell you the tale.”
“It was a long, long time ago,” Caddoc began.
Targh loved tales that started that way. He snuggled closer so his father could put an arm around his shoulder. “Is there a boy in it?” he asked.
“Not this time,” said Caddoc. “It was too long ago.”
“Tad-cu’s long ago?”
“Longer than that. Before your grandtad’s grandtad. Even before our people had come to Ynys Mawr.”
Targh was silent with wonder. He hadn’t known there was a time so long ago. He lay back against his father’s broad chest, carefully holding the prize frog, and listened.
And this is the tale Caddoc told that day . . .
Tales of Avalon Page 13
