Without a word, Hiraeth lifted one long, pale white arm, and pointed toward the shore. As she traced the air with her finger, a silver thread appeared upon the storm waves, turning and twisting its way between and past the threatening rocks, showing him the pathway that would surely save the little coracle and bring the men safely to the island’s shore.
Of another and far off place these men were, and of a faith that knew not the tales of the mor-forwynedd except as deamons of the sea who oft would lure lost mariners to their deaths upon the rocks, and take their very souls along with their lives. Nothing did they know of all the ancient and mysterious lore that gleamed still within the heart of Hiraeth. But the one. . . Adolwyn, she knew yet not his name, he whose eyes had touched her soul and sent a kindred spirit’s kiss above the waves, he alone did seem to understand her old and ancient faith. He in his heart her song returned, and they sang together in the sea and storm.
Through the peril of the rocks and waves the men rode their coracle along Hiraeth’s silver pathway, coming at last to the safety of the stony beach. Harsh was the grating of stones upon the bottom of the craft, but greatly welcomed after the time at sea. For long moments they sat in silence, each thanking his own gods for the gift of his life, while the surging waves continued to lift the rear of the little boat and push them further onshore. One by one they dropped their oars, and with reverence for the solid ground stepped out onto the stones. Once they had dragged the coracle out of the reach of the sea, they set about searching the rocky crags and overhangs for wood that had escaped the weather and was still dry. Near the mouth of small tidal cave they kindled a fire for drying and for warmth.
But Adolwyn forsook the fire, and found his way to the water’s edge, not minding the breakers or the storm. He lifted his eyes against the wind and looked out to the skerry where Hiraeth still sat, combing again her golden hair and singing to him over the gale. Adolwyn felt a warmth in his heart that spread outward to cheer his body and his mind. When he stepped into the waves, the water was warm where he trod, and the breakers parted before his feet. In perfect love and perfect trust Adolwyn waded into a gentle surf. Never taking his eyes off the mor-forwyn, he walked out to her seat. There in the waters of the bay off the shore of Ynys y Ywen, upon the rocky skerry, did they meet. As he stepped upon the rock the storm quiet did become, the winds died to a soft breeze, and the waters calmed around them. Hiraeth dropped her brush and looked deeply into his gray eyes as he stood before her. Indeed, their eyes and hearts together did embrace before ever their bodies touched, before he knelt at her side and took her in his arms as she sang, before she clung to him and held him to her breast. Their kiss began as gently as the song of a lark, then deepened and deepened until finally it was like a wild whirlpool in the sea, spinning and turning and drawing all into itself. In the sky above the sea birds wheeled and cried, and in the sea around dolphins circled and leapt and blew fountains of spray into the air, as together Adolwyn and Hiraeth embraced. At that one instant in the turning ages high heaven rang with the sound of joyful song to think that humankind, despite its fears, would cease to judge which faiths were right, or wrong.
“This love is blessed by Llyr,” said she, as in her face he saw the wild reflection of the wild sea. “Now to your chief and captain let us go, that he may call upon the gods you bring to these shores, so old and new alike may blessed be, and from each other learn to love and grow.”
The captain was a hard and willful man who would not hear of anything so bold as the man and mermaid’s tender hearted plan to join in one the myths of new and old. His face grew red, and anger filled his eyes, as he glared upon Hiraeth beside her Adolwyn in the shallow waters of the bay. But anger soon gave way to freezing hate. With a cold and judging heart he cast her out, cast her back unto the skerry rock that sat off shore. As she in sadness left she heard him shout,
“Mor-forwyn thou art accursed! Be gone, thou deamon spawn and return here nevermore!” Adolwyn a warrior was, bound unto the service of his chief and captain, so powerless was he to change what happened on the shore or to follow his beloved as she left. Behind them, around the fire all the rest played at games of chance and drank their ration of mead and sang, unaware of the sadness on the shore. Nor would they have cared had they known.
With a grunt Grym, the captain, turned back toward the fire. Then stopped and over his left shoulder to the man who stood alone upon the shore, “Come, lad,” he said. “There are wenches plenty to be found in this new land. Thou needest not the company of fish.” He spat upon the stones, then turned again and to the fire strode, Adolwyn a broken man but faithful warrior at his heels. They lifted their provisions on their backs and soon were headed for the hills, all but Adolwyn already beginning to forget to whom they owed their lives that day when they in peril were upon the waves.
But love cannot be banished by the whim of hatred and of cruel heart, so Hiraeth once more did on the skerry sit and long for him who up the far hill climbed and left the sea.
As darkest night descended on that holy place, the morwyn’s mournful song like haunted seal-song filled the sea. Tears of deepest sadness marred the face where only laughter’s love was meant to be. Each one, a great green sea-drop, left her eyes to mingle salt seawater with salt tears. But they ne’er did dissolve, as did her cries of sorrow, with the passing years. Ever after, on Ywen’s rocky southern shore, Hiraeth’s deep green tears of love may still be found by those whose hearts are filled with her love-longing for what could never be.
This tale is true, I swear upon my heart. Gods, grant that all true lovers never part.
Chapter Sixteen Summer of the Silures “This peace cannot last.”
Cethin and Fianna were in front of her roundhouse beside the sheep meadow. During the quiet summer the human inhabitants of Llan y gelli had little need of a healer, so the herbalist and the priestess were helping with the wool gathering, checking each animal for illness as it lost its thick coat. Silure sheep were small, less than an arm span high at the withers. Their coarse brown wool, in full molt at midsummer, was gathered by rooing with a large wooden comb.
Cethin finished inspecting the skin and hooves of another sheep and gave it a gentle smack on the rump. It trotted off to the edge of the meadow where it began with delight to strip a blackberry bramble of its large summer leaves.
“Brambles, thistles, and nettles!” Fianna said. “All the things we will not eat, but the sheep know them to be the healthiest food in the meadow.”
Yet if she was intending to distract Cethin from his dark mood, he did not hear.
“This peace cannot last,” he said again, grabbing another sheep as it was brought over by one of the rooers.
“Why do you say that?” Fianna asked. “Seutonius is still far to the east, and the II Augusta sits without a commander on the Mendydds. Rome is not interested in the Silure forest, where patrols must travel single file and risk ambush in every ravine.”
“What you say sounds reasonable enough, but look at him.” Cethin gestured to the young man who had just delivered another sheep, and was returning to the flock. “He gathers wool, but carries a sword on his belt. It is not the Romans I worry about, but the young men of the tribe. They grow tired of being prisoners in their own lands. They are ready to take the fight to Seutonius, and every day Cadael grows more willing to lead them.”
It was more than bravado, Cethin knew. As Boudicca’s defeat faded into the past, it became ever more likely the Romans would turn their attention once again to the Silures. This tribe alone, out of fierce independence and sheer unruliness, was the last holdout among the Brythons. It seemed every day there was rumor of a new Roman camp not far off. Rather than invade the bogs and ravines of the Silure forests, Seutonius had decided to build a line of outposts in villages just across the Wye and the Hafren. For a time he was content simply to contain the troublesome tribe, while the legions consolidated Roman rule everywhere else. It did mean peace of a sort for the Silures, but it was a tense,
wary peace. Young warriors bridled at being prisoners in their own land.
“Patience, lads,” the old men were saying. “Enjoy your wives and children while you can.”
“The elders speak true,” Cethin would say. “I have no desire to be patching up bleeding Silures anytime soon.”
But the young men bristled with anger, and wore sharpened swords to work in the fields. Although Cadael was trying to hold them back, his heart also was longing for an honest fight.
Fianna looked up at Cethin, still holding a sheep’s hoof in her hands. “Cadael has led the Silures for a long time,” she said. “He will not lightly take them to slaughter.”
~
Hard after wool gathering season, when the sun was hot and high in the sky, came time for the barley harvest. It was as though nature contrived to keep men busy at domestic tasks who would rather be working with swords. Occasionally Roman patrols would be seen in the area, but they never came close enough, or stayed long enough, for a fight. Yet more and more often, Cethin noticed, Cadael could be seen in close consultation with seasoned warriors, men who would be his commanders in a fight.
“Cadael is preparing for battle,” he told Fianna one day while they were gathering sunwort at the edge of the sheep meadow.
“Perhaps they are only making sure of their plans should a patrol come too close,” she suggested.
“I think not. I think he is growing tired of living inside a ring of Roman forts. I think he is planning an attack across the Wye.”
“Then we must gather quite a bit more sunwort,” Fianna said. “And begin making bandages. For when fools go to war, it is the lot of the wise to bind their wounds.”
“What tale is that from?” Cethin asked.
“Some truths, Healer, need no tale to be understood.” And she dropped a final bunch of sunwort into her basket. “Do you remember the Old Frog?” she asked.
“Of Bryn Llyffaint?” Cethin smiled. It was the one tale that made him smile. He liked to think that as a boy he had been, himself, very much like young Targh.
“It is a lesson in courage,” Fianna said. “But it is also a lesson in humility. And in the wide world things do not go well for frogs who wrestle with giants.”
~
The summons Cethin feared came a day later. He watched them arrive along the forest road in their chariots, their robes and tunics a blaze of red and yellow, polished swords and spear points flashing in the sun. Leaving horses and equipment at the paddock in the care of aides, each strode purposefully along the pathway to the chieftain’s roundhouse. When at last Cethin entered, Cadael was already surrounded by his war council; clan leaders from several villages in the forest: Cai, Meilyg, Penllyn, Gwyr, Caddoc. At the appearance of the Healer the conversation stopped, and all faces turned to him in silence.
“Why him?” asked Gwyr. “He is not Silure.”
Cadael was grim in his response. “His father came to us when the Dubh-bunadh capitulated, long ago. When he was a young fighter of twenty summers he saw his father fall, fighting side by side with Caradoc, and he has been our Healer ever since. He is part of this council.” The Silure chief was not yet ready to be convinced by that council. He valued Cethin’s steady judgment, welcomed his presence. He sat in the chieftain’s chair, part of a circle of benches around the hearth fire, and bid the others sit after him, studying each face carefully, as tribal chieftains learn to do, before he spoke.
“You have asked me to call a council meeting. Here I am.” His words did not seem to invite reply. The circle remained silent, while the hearth flames crackled and sent oak and maple scented smoke into the thatch above.
“Here I am,” Cadael said again. This time he added, “What do you want of me?” He knew, but they had to be made to say it.
He is hunting them like Targh hunted the frog, Cethin thought. He wants war as much as they do, but he wants to make them take the responsibility for the decision.
“Every day Seutonius brings elements of the XIVth closer to our lands,” said Gwyr finally. He was not the eldest of the clan chiefs, but they recognized him as the strongest, so he spoke for them all.
“But he is not yet here?” Cadael asked in a carefully measured tone.
“No, he is not,” admitted Gwyr.
Cadael looked around the circle, waiting long moments before he spoke again, weighing what he saw in men’s eyes. Ready to take action as he was, he would not go to war with a council bullied by Gwyr.
“It is not possible to maneuver a full legion in pitched battle in our forests,” Cadael reminded them, “and they dare not expose smaller units to our raids and ambushes.” Again he watched their responses. Cai and Penllyn seemed to agree with this line of reasoning.
But Gwyr was not dissuaded.
“True, we can easily defeat one of their centuries at a time, especially if they are under staffed. But if they were to send several cohorts at once from different directions, it would be trouble.”
“Can they do that without us seeing the preparations?” Cadael asked, momentarily off balance.
“They are already preparing.” It was Caddoc joining the argument. around us. Gray Woods, Glevum, Corinium of the Dubh-bunaidh” – he glanced at Cethin – “and Dyfroedd Sulis. We are surrounded on three sides and cut off from the rest of the tribes.” This time Gwyr and Meilyg nodded their agreement. There it was. Dwyr, Meilyg and Caddoc for fighting, Cai and Penllyn against. If Cadael agreed with the majority, they would attack, probably at Glevum or the Gray Woods. If he disagreed, the council would obey, but it was always a bad plan to alienate the majority.
It was then Cethin spoke.
“It is now past high summer,” he said. Seutonius may soon begin sending out raiding parties, but he will not risk multiple cohorts in the field during the winter, especially if that field is the Silure forests. Perhaps we might maintain our own patrols in the passes, where we can harass or defeat their raiding parties. Make the winter as uncomfortable as we can for Seutonius in this way and he may think twice about invading, even when the weather improves”
Cadael’s eyes swept around the circle. Meilyg nodded. Then Caddoc. The decision was made. Cadael would have sided with Gwyr in favor of battle, but not outnumbered in council four to two.
“We wait,” he said, and hoped to all the gods that Cethin was right.
~
Later, in the healer’s hut, Cethin recounted the news to Fianna.
“If a frog is to wrestle with giants,” she laughed, “it pays to choose the right giants. You fared better against the clan Seutonius is reinforcing all the major outposts Already troop strength is growing at Viriconon, chiefs than they would have done against the Romans.”
Cethin sighed. “Gwyr is right about one thing, though. The noose is tightening. through occupied lands. longer.”
“We have three more tales, Cethin,” she said. “And perhaps two more cycles of the moon before the frosts. When I am done, I shall be done. And then I will leave.
“Now let me hear again, Hiraeth’s Tears, from ‘The captain was a hard and willful man . . .’”
~
“It is the saddest of the tales,” said Cethin after he had finished reciting. “I cannot see what it teaches, or why it is included with the rest. Indeed, it does not even take place in the marshes, but on the coast of far off Alva.”
Fianna sat on her old cot and poured cool tea for them both from a stone crock. When Cethin too had sat, she said,
“You tell me why it is included in the Marsh Tales.”
Cethin was silent for a long time. Fianna’s mind wandered, almost drifting to Ynys y Niwl, when finally he spoke.
“It seems there is another world,” he ventured, “an otherworld of the spirit. One may lose something in this world, yet hold it still in that otherworld.” Again he was quiet, as though he were watching thoughts form inside his head.
“Go on,” said Fianna.
“Perhaps it is possible to lose something precious in the real world, b
ut lose it not at all in the spirit.”
“Real world?” asked Fianna. “And which is the real world?”
Cethin looked confused. “Is it not the real world that contains sea spray, and rending rocks, and tears?”
“Cethin, think for a moment. Where was Hiraeth’s love born? In the spray? Amid the rocks?”
Again Cethin was silent for a long while. But Fianna stayed with him, holding his spirit gently while he searched. Even now the way to Affalon leads You should not stay here much “It was born in her heart,” he said quietly.
“And what lives in the heart,” Fianna answered, “cannot be taken from you by anyone in the wide world. It is in the heart that truth is found, and that which is truly real.”
“The captain took her lover from her, but he could not take her love,” Cethin said. It seemed to him hollow recompense, yet an aura of profound truth hung about it.
“The tribes cannot stand against the power of Rome,” said Fianna. “In the end they will take our lands. Even if we all die in the fight we will not prevent that. But all the Roman legions cannot take our Brythonic soul.”
~
The moon waxed and waned in the gray autumn skies. As the feast of Summer’s End neared, the cellars of Llan y gelli filled with the harvest. New woolen coats began to grow upon the backs of sheep who would, with the cattle, soon be returned to the winter paddock. And as the frosts came ever nearer, Fianna taught Cethin the last of the Marsh Tales. The story of how fair Edain of the Gwragedd came to Ynys y Cysgodion and played a role in the changing of Morwyn, the Dark Lady. The story of how the Lady first came to Ynys y Niwl, and the birth of the community of priestesses there. And the tale of a strange cup of blue glass that would one day bring about the changing of the world.
Tales of Avalon Page 16
