~
It was a long, long time ago, before ever anyone had come to the great isle on the edge of the northern marshes. Ynys Mawr was the last big island before the waves of the never ending sea, and no animals ventured beyond it except those that flew, or made their home in the water. It was a much larger island then, running in a long line nearly from the open sea to the bogs and fens around Ynys y Niwl, the isle of shadows. Chief among the animal clans who made the big island their home were those of the Cyfeillion y Llyffaint, the frog friends (for llyffaint means frogs in the Old Tongue.) They raised their young in the warm shallows that surrounded the island. Some grew dry, brown skins and moved inland among the central hills.
For many generations the Llyffaint clans lived and prospered on Ynys Mawr. All the animals spoke the Old Tongue of the marshes in those days, and the Llyffaint of Ynys Mawr, in their own dialect, had a rich body of folk tales, of their own heritage, and about the beginnings of all things.
One day the Cewri came to Ynys Mawr, a towering race of giants who were the ancestors of men, and whom they resembled closely except for their great size. The Cewri loved metals, especially those that shone like the stars, which they collected in great hoards. The Llyffaint held councils to decide what might be done about the Cewri, and how to live on the island with them, but the giants seemed not at all interested in matters concerning the Llyffaint, so the two races remained apart as much as possible.
Trouble began when the Cewri began delving in the earth of Ynys Mawr with shovels made of wood and iron, digging great clods of earth the size of mountains from the body of Ynys Mawr and tossing them into piles on the land across the north marshes. The Cewri were building the Bryniau’r Mendydd as a place to store their treasure hoards of lead and silver.
The Llyffaint were more troubled than ever, fearing that Ynys Mawr might disappear altogether, so they called a Great Council, known throughout their history as the Council of the Cyfeillion y Llyffaint, to decide what to do. Their deliberations went on for many days without a decision. Meanwhile the Cewri continued to dig. Ynys Mawr grew smaller and smaller, and the Bryniau’r Mendydd continued to rise above the northern shore.
Finally the Llyffaint settled upon a plan. They elected the biggest and oldest among them, a great old frog named Hynafgwr, to seek an audience with the Cewri chief. At first Hynafgwr was not pleased with this solution, but the Llyffaint enthusiastically told him of the honours and privileges that would go with his election, making up greater and greater rewards as they went along. Finally, armed with the title of King of the Llyffaint for all the Ages, the promise of great wealth, and a bodyguard of trained warriors, Hynafgwr agreed to try.
The next day found him racing in and about the large, booted feet of the Cewri, and their massive tools, as they continued to shovel mountains of Ynys Mawr onto the rising Mendydds. Hynafgwr was at a loss for what to do. He did not stand as tall as the ankle bone of the shortest Cawr. Jump up and down and shout as he might, he could not make himself heard above the din of the shoveling and the work songs the Cewri were so fond of singing. Indeed, he was almost stepped upon several times, and once nearly cut in two by the blade of a shovel. Hynafgwr truly wanted to give up and hop quickly out of danger. But he had already accepted the title of King, and, once obtained, that is an honour hard to let go of.
When Hynafgwr finally hit upon an idea, he was more unhappy than ever. For the idea, though it possibly might work, was filled with danger. Still, to be “King for all the Ages . . .” Well, he decided to try it. Very carefully he crept near to where one of the Giants was lifting great shovels-full of earth and tossing them onto the Mendydds. He waited until, tschunk! The Giant’s shovel was buried to the handle in the dirt of Ynys Mawr. Without waiting to be overcome with common sense, Hynafgwr leapt upon the shovelful of dirt as it came out of the earth. The old frog was immediately aware of his danger. If he could not make himself known to the Giant in the next moment, he would be hurtling through the air to the tops of the Mendydds with enough dirt to bury him for, though King, all the Ages. As the shovel rose within the Giant’s line of vision, Hynafgwr hopped up and down with all his might. He tried repeatedly to shout “STOP!” at the top of his lungs, but he was so frightened, and so breathless, the only sound that came out of his mouth was a loud “CROAK!”
Now the Giant had never heard such a sound before. Truth be told, nor had anyone else in the marshes. He froze, with his shovel stopped in mid-swing. Great clods of earth the size of boulders fell out of it, hurtling down to the ground far below, so that Hynafgwr had to hold on for dear life to stay perched where he was. The Giant lifted his shovel blade and lowered his face to it, to peer more closely at his strange discovery.
The Llyffaint did not wear boots. If they had, Hynafgwr would have begun shaking in his. This close up, the Giant was far uglier than Hynafgwr had imagined. And his breath was far fouler. This was even worse because of the heavy breathing made necessary by the exertion of creating the Bryniau’r Mendydd! The Giant picked him up in his left hand, being quite gentle so as not to break any of Hynafgwr’s delicate bones.
“Bagat es ganoch?” the Giant asked in the Old Tongue of the Cewri. “Bagot ant es blachen?”
Hynafgwr looked hopelessly puzzled, suggesting to the Giant he ought to rephrase the question.
“Who are you?” the Giant asked again. “And what do you want?” Hynafgwr remained puzzled, for he had not really expected the Giant to know the Common Tongue of the marshes. But he kept his wits about him, cleared his throat, and began.
“Ahem! Uh, take me to your Chief, please, sir, if you will.”
“Cheef?” Now it was the Giant's turn to be puzzled. “What is Cheef?”
“Uh, CROAK.” The frog was nervous, “You know, the one who is in charge.”
“Charj? Where is Charj? Is on Ynys Mawr?”
Puzzled fear was quickly turning to aggravated frustration for the old frog. “Not a place!” he said. “Look, who makes your decisions?”
The Giant still looked puzzled. He was getting tired of holding a shovel in one hand and a frog in the other, and the strain was beginning to show.
“Dee-sid juns?” He asked.
Clearly this was not the path forward. Hynafgwr was beginning to understand the Cewri did not have such things as chiefs, or decisions. He decided to try another approach.
“O fine, great Giant,” he began. The Giant grinned. “I have been sent by the Cyfeillion y Llyffaint on this island to ask a favor of the wisest and strongest of the Cewri.” The grin turned to a smile. “We agreed . . .”
“What’s a gree?” interrupted the Giant.
“We all talked together and thought you seemed to be the bravest and smartest of all the Cewri, and so they sent me directly to you.”
The Giant did not quite understand all of that, but it sounded like a high compliment, so his smile widened even further.
“What do you want?” he asked. “I am a great Giant. I am greatest Giant, and can do anything!”
“Uh, first, could you please put me down?” Hynafgwr asked. He was getting quite nervous being held at such a height, and was worried he would begin croaking again at any moment. The Giant set him down on the top of a high precipice, then sat himself at its foot. so their faces, if not the same size, were at least at the same height.
“My name is Hynafgwr,” began the old frog, remembering diplomatic manners. “What is yours?”
“I am Offrwm,” offered the Giant.
“Fine, Offrwm, I need your help.”
“Go on,” said Offrwm. He was getting the hang of diplomacy.
Hynafgwr gestured to all the Giants who were still shoveling. “You see,” he said, “Ynys Mawr is getting smaller and smaller.”
“Yes!” agreed Offrwm. “And the Treasure Mountains are getting bigger and bigger.” He looked up and surveyed his work with pride. “Soon there will be room for all Cewri silver and lead.”
“But Ynys Mawr is our home!” Hynafgwr prot
ested. Soon there will not be any room here for us!
Offrwm was silent for a long moment. He scratched his head.
“Oh,” he said, and paused a moment. His eyes swept over the diminished island. “I see.”
Hynafgwr nearly stamped his foot. “What can be done about it?” he asked.
Offrwm scratched his head again. His race of Giants was not particularly unfriendly. And, strange to tell, they were somewhat smarter than Giants in other lands. It wasn’t that they had wanted to displace the Llyffaint. Nor that they were insensitive to the frogs’ needs. But the dirt was so nice. And it was in the right place. And they really needed those Treasure Hills.
“Wait here,” he said, finally. He got up and walked over to where the other Giants were still working at hurling huge clods of Ynys Mawr onto the Bryniau’r Mendydd. He waved to them, and they all huddled in a great circle, where they conversed privately for some time.
Finally Offrwm left the circle, picked up his shovel, and stepped across the north marsh to the foot of the Bryniau’r Mendydd. He thrust his shovel into the side of the hills, lifted out a great mass of earth, turned, and flung it out westward across the open waters. With a loud roaring splash the earth landed in the water just where the shallows meet the deep never ending sea, and the mound of dirt stood in a cone like a high hill over the surface of the water. Offrwm thrust his shovel back into the earth and stepped back over the marshes to where Hynafgwr was looking on in amazement. He pointed to the new island.
“There is home for Cyfeillion y Llyffaint for ever,” he said. “Cewri will never disturb it.” Then pointing to the scar in the Mendydds, he said, “We leave gap in Treasure Hills to remind us not again to make others’ land smaller.” Indeed, that scar in Byniau’r Mendydd became known always as Ceunant y Gawr, the Giant’s Gorge, which some call Ceodor.
Hynafgwr bowed low in thanks. From that moment the Llyffaint and the Cewri became great friends. Hynafgwr in triumph convened another council of the Cyfeillion y Llyffaint, in which he received great honours, including the title of “King of the Llyffaint for all the Ages.” But he had been humbled by the experience, and never used the title himself. He oversaw the moving of all the frogs to the new island where the marshes meet the sea. When they were settled, he proclaimed,
“We shall call this place Ynys Bryn Llyffaint. But do not call me King, for I am only an Old Frog.”
That is how Bryn Llyffaint got its name, and how there comes to be such a treasure of lead and silver in the mines of the Bryniau’r Mendydd. And, by the way, how the greatest of heroes can also be the most humble.
~
When the tale was finished Targh sat for a long time in silence. He opened the folds of his tunic and looked at the great green frog he had caught. It looked, curiously, back at him.
“Croak,” it said.
“He’s not really the Old Frog, Tada, is he?”
Caddoc smiled. “Well, I suppose not, son,” he said. “That story happened a long time ago.”
Targh put on his serious face again. “But he could be his great great grandson, couldn’t he, Tada? Couldn’t he?”
“Well, yes, I suppose he could.”
Targh lapsed in to the deepest thought a boy of less than five summers can find. He was silent for a long time. Finally he looked up at his father.
“I think we should put him back,” he said.
“Put him back? But I thought . . .”
Targh shook his head. “We should put him back, in case he wants to swim out to Bryn Llyffaint.” He carefully wrapped up the frog, stood, and headed off for the cattails, with Caddoc following. When they set the great great grandson of Hynafgwr free, they could have sworn he gave them a deep bow, and almost understood what he meant when he said “C-r-o-a-k.” Finally the Old Frog turned and swam slowly off, into the west.
Caddoc tugged gently on Targh’s ear. “C’mon, Pal,” he said, “Let’s get you cleaned up!” Together they walked back to the boat, ready to go home.
Chapter Fourteen
VIII. The Tinner and the Coblynau
Not so very long ago as time is measured in the marshes, Azariah of Beth-Shemesh came from the farthest east to settle in the Brythonic lands. He was of the race of the Iudde, those who say there is only one god, and that he lives at the top of a mountain in the midst of a dry and dusty desert in their own faraway land. Azariah’s journey began with the scattering of his people by the warrior king Nebadd-kinesser. With his wife, Rebekkah, and seven children, he set out by boat from the coast of Iuddea to cross the wide sea that lies at the middle of the earth. After years of perilous travel through many lands Azariah came to the Brythonic shores and settled in the hills of Cornualle, which rise above the marshes that lie south of Crib Pwlborfa. Now Azariah was a delver in stone.
It is said that Azariah was the first to discover the rich veins of alcam that lay hidden in the Cornualle hills. Traders in the east called it “tin,” and used it to carry water for great houses made of stones. Azariah dug deep into the earth to bring out this tin for sale, so the hills of Cornualle became known for the many mines of Aazariah the Tinner. He prospered, and his children grew and married young men and women of the land. In time, Azariah of Beth-Shemesh became known as Asaryedd of Cornualle. Though he remained faithful to his Iuddic god all his days, he learned the local ways of the Cernyw.
Never again did Asaryedd see the mountains of his home. His children came to consider themselves to be as Brythonic as they were Iuddic. His grandchildren and their grandchildren after them would carry on the business of the tin trade, knowing themselves to be in some way different from their neighbors, but living the life of the Cernyw peoples.
One day, when Asaryedd had grown rich from the sale of tin, he longed to explore more of his adopted land. Rebekkah had died, leaving him alone in their home, for their children were grown. So he left his mines in the care of his eldest son, and traveled north across the marshes into the hills of Crib Pwlborfa to see what he might find at the edge of the world.
But Crib Pwlborfa is not the edge of the world. When Asaryedd pulled his boat up on the southern shore and climbed to the top of the ridge, he looked out upon the wide sweep of fenland and open waters that is the ancient home of the Marsh Folk. In the distance, far to the north across the marshes, he saw the misty hills of the Bryniau’r Mendydd, for the edge of the world is always farther off than one can imagine. It was a good and pleasant land that Asaryedd saw spread out before him: cattle grazed, and sheep, on the northern slopes of Bryniau’r Pwlborfa. A long, straight line that appeared to be some sort of trackway led across the marshes to a small island. On the northern edge of the island, Asaryedd could make out the palisades and thatched roofs of a village, the home of the Lake People. I will go and see this place, he thought to himself, and learn what sort of people live there.
It was not easy to understand the tongue of the Lake People, but it was close enough to the language of Cornualle that they could, with some effort, speak together. They told him tales of the marshes, and marveled at his stories of the far-off Iuddean wilderness. But Asaryedd was most intrigued by their legends of the Bryniau’r Mendydd, the ancient Treasure Hills, so they said, of a race of Giants from ages past. Rumor told of deposits of a precious metal that shone like the moon. Arian, it was called in the marsh, for the moon goddess.
“Of what use is this arian”? Asaryedd asked of the lake elders as they sat one night around a campfire on the shore of the island, for he had never heard the name. An elder reached into the opening of his tunic and pulled out a leather cord. Attached to the end was a glittering crescent shaped like the waxing moon and traced with lines worked into twisted and tangled knots. It glowed and glittered in the firelight.
“Silver!” breathed Asaryedd as he reached out a hand to touch it. But the elder quickly withdrew the sacred amulet and hid it once more under his tunic.
“The tales tell of great veins of silver deep within the mountains,’ said the elder. “We use o
nly what we find nearer the surface, for we are fishers of the marsh and know nothing of delving into the earth. It was hidden there long ago by the Cewri, a race of giants who made the Mendydd hills, and lived there before our people came to these marshes.”
Though Asaryedd had started out in the Cornualle hills as a miner, he had grown rich as a skilled and cunning merchant. At once he understood the wealth that lay beneath the Bryniau’r Mendydd, and he determined to find it. With some bargaining, chiefly a hastily drawn map to the general location of his family tin mines and a note of introduction to his sons, Asaryedd obtained from the elders of the lake village a small boat to replace the one he had left behind on the south shore of Crib Pwlborfa, and a few digging tools. In the morning light he set out across the open water in the direction of the north marshes, as the slopes of the Mendydds rose through the mists before him . . .
~
It was dark and wet at the bottom of the long shaft. Rainwater soaked through cracks in the limestone rock and dripped in puddles around him, turning the dirt and rock dust of the mine floor into a thick slurry. Asaryedd sat in the darkness near three companions from a local tribe who he had hired on the promise of immanent riches. They kept a small fire going to see by when they were digging, but let it go out when they stopped for a meal, to save fuel. Somewhere near the mouth of the shaft the three were sleeping. He could hear the snores. But Asaryedd sat alone in the dark, pulling a scarf around him to keep the dripping water off his neck. Words of the bards of his people came to him . . .
Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in the darkness, in the deeps . . . Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? Lover and friend thou hast put far from me, and acquaintances into darkness . . .
Adonai, his god, was a god who dwelt upon the mountaintops. Could Adonai’s help also be found deep within the bowels of the ancient Brythonic hills? It wasn’t so much the dark of the mine that Asaryedd feared. He had seen such darkness often before. But alone, at the bottom of the shaft, he was aware of a growing darkness in his heart. A darkness of the loss of Rebekkah, and the separation from his children.
Tales of Avalon Page 14
