Chapter Seventeen X. The Gwraig Annwn
Beyond the misty shores of Ynys y Niwl, along the marshways that lead to the place of the holy wells, lie the quiet waters of Llyn Hydd. There roams the white hart of legend, and there live the most ancient of the Old Kindred. There is a glamour upon that lake, hiding the island on which they dwell in the midst of the waters. No living mortal has seen this isle, but tales say the sun shines there always, that its gardens abound in fragrant flowers and summer fruit. There the air is filled with haunting music and other magical wonders. The way to Ynys Gwragedd now is hidden; none may enter evermore, save for the fair women of y Tylwyth Teg, the women of faerie. This is the tale of one such faerie woman, and the role she played in the coming of the Lady of Affalon.
~
Alawen of the Gwragedd stepped from the waters of Llyn Hydd at first light. It was at the balance of the turning seasons, when light overcomes darkness and a new cycle begins. The air was colder and, despite the surrounding mists, drier than on the isle. It burned her lungs, so she sat for a moment on the cool mosses and looked out across the lake. From where she rested, no island nor sign of the dwellings of the Gwragedd could be seen. The gray mists and barren branches surrounding the lake were reflected in its still, gray waters. White herons circled in the glamour, the enchanted banners of the home she was leaving. A tear grew silently in her eye.
The Gwragedd do not measure age as mortals do. Alawen had the appearance of a woman who, yet in her youth, possessed the bearing that comes only with the wisdom of age. Fair and pale was her skin, with the blush of summer sun not seen in the marshes, and her eyes were bright with the bluegreen color of mosses growing on wet rocks along the shore. She seemed at once lithe as a maiden, yet full and rounded as a mother, so one might not guess with ease her height or the weight of her presence upon the soft ground. Her hair was streaked with silver and white, as long as the ages through which she had lived. It stirred with the breeze, as if carried by currents flowing deep beneath the surface of the lake. She wore a white gown which, though fully dry, glistened with the sheen of lake water and left tiny droplets on the ground. Her feet were bare.
All the Gwragedd are in the form and aspect of women. For mortal women and their children they have great affection, caring not for the company of men except, on occasion, when they desire children of their own. Such a desire filled the heart of Alawen that day, as she rose to her feet and set out eastward across the bogs toward the solid earth of the broad and high plains, where lay the dwellings of mortal men.
It was early on the third morning when she came to the tiny village of Pwysi that lay at the foot of the chalk downs which rose on the northern edge of the Salis Plain. A few wattle and thatch huts were clustered upon the green grass in the bend of a small river. Early flowers of pink and red grew 'round about, giving the settlement its name. Smoke from hearth fires rose through the thatched roofs. The scent of morning meals was in the air, reminding Alawen of her hunger. Though she had not eaten since leaving Ynys Gwragedd, she did not wish to enter the village of humans, choosing instead to wait and watch for those who were about to disperse to the surrounding fields. Perhaps she would see a young man to her liking before she might reveal her presence, for it is easier to win over one lad in the fields with beauty than to sway an entire village.
One by one men emerged from their huts, carrying their daily needs upon their backs. They slung rakes or hoes over their shoulders and left the village in all directions to prepare the spring planting. For long moments Alawen watched from a bramble thicket overlooking the village.
Finally she saw him. Young and broad shouldered he was, kindly of face, with ruddy curls that hung to his shoulders and danced with his bright blue eyes. He sang as he approached her on the path. When he drew near, Alawen rose and stepped from her thicket. Muddied with travel, pale with hunger, she was yet fair to the eye. The young farmer stopped in mid stride and beheld her with wonder.
“Have you something to offer a hungry traveler?” she asked. The sound of her voice was like the song of living waters. He knew at once that a woman of the Old Kindred stood before him. He dropped his hoe on the path, could not find his voice, his eyes locked in her gaze. There was silence around them save for birdsong on the morning breeze. Then she spoke again.
“I hunger,” she said. “Have you something in your sack for me?”
“You are of y Tylwyth Teg,” he answered, still transfixed.
“This does not mean I have no need of food,” she said with a smile. “Again I ask, have you aught to share with me?” She stepped aside and sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree. Placing a hand beside her upon the old wood, she looked up at him and said once more, “Come, sit beside me. I am hungry and you have food for the day in your sack.”
He sat beside her, his eyes never leaving hers. Taking his worn, woven sack from his shoulders, he reached inside and found a dried apple that had been carefully stored over the winter. When he held it out to her she took it slowly, not wishing to betray the extent of her need. She took a small bite and ate it carefully, relishing the sweet-sour taste, feeling the renewal of her body as she swallowed. After a time, she spoke again.
“I am Alawen, of the marshes,” she said. “What is your name?”
In his wonder he heard her first words, but not her question.
“You are of the Gwragedd?” he asked. “You are a Gwraig Annwn?”
She laughed. “That I am,” she answered. “And you are a man, I suppose?” He nodded, though it was hardly necessary. “And your name?” she asked again.
He cleared his throat. “Arddwr,” he said. “I am called Arddwr.”
“A noble name,” said Alawen. “It is an honour to be called Plowman.” She rose from her seat on the log, leaving a patch of dampness behind. “Come,” she said, “I will go with you to the fields.” And he followed, not thinking to wonder how she knew which plot of dark earth was his.
As the sun rose in the sky Arddwr went about the preparation of his fields. Alawen stood by, singing to him songs of the marshes, and his work seemed light. As darkness approached and Arddwr collected his tools, Alawen came near to him, her face close so he could feel her breath on his cheek, her eyes again holding his.
“You live alone,” she said. “Yet you are young.”
His countenance fell. “I was married,” he answered. “She died of an illness this winter past, before she could bear a child. Yes, I am alone.” They were still, quiet in the evening breezes. Alawen was aware of eagles that circled overhead, aware that from their height they might well be able to see the marshes from whence she had come. Slowly, she leaned forward. Almost without moving, she kissed him gently on his mouth. She tasted of marsh mallow, and her lips were like cool, clear waters. “I would be gwraig to you,” she whispered. “I would be your bride.” With her kiss a glamour came upon her. A brighter color came to her face, a warmth to her skin, and the dampness of lake water left her clothing and hair. Standing before Arddwr, she took upon herself the appearance of a mortal woman, and he marveled at her beauty.
Alawen took his hands in her own, and pledged herself to him. “I will truly be your bride,” she said, “in all the joys and trials of life. I will bring you passion and comfort in our life together, and I will bear our children. To all of this I swear, but you must promise me two things.” She paused.
Arddwr felt the warmth growing stronger moment by moment in the flesh of her hands, changing from cool detachment to passionate ardor. And he could feel the heat of love rising in his own body. “I will promise you anything, if you offer me your love,” he said.
“I will truly love you,” she answered, “If you swear to these things. First, you must always remember that although in seeming I shall be as a mortal woman to you and all others, I shall surely ever be of the Gwragedd Annwn. So shall my feelings always be, and my ways of being in the world. You shall not begrudge me this.”
Arddwr raised both her hands to his lips and kisse
d them. Never had he felt a woman so warm. “That is an easy vow,” he said. “I swear to it.”
Her soft eyes became for a moment hard and determined. “Next, you must never strike me if I have given you no cause. This is a strong anogaeth with me as with all Gwragedd, a vow that cannot be broken.” With this she held his hand tightly. “If you strike me three times without cause, I must leave you forever.”
A shadow crossed his face, then his eyes sparkled. “Easily do you hold me yn gaeth with this vow as well,” he said. “And I am enslaved.” Alawen kissed him again, but was troubled in her heart for she knew he did not understand what he had promised.
So in the new furrows of a spring field were Alawen and Arddwr pledged one to another. She came to his hearth and his bed, desiring quickly to realize the treasure she had sought, the conceiving of her own children.
The people of Pwysi welcomed her into their midst, marveling at her wisdom and beauty. If any wondered that she had never before been seen in the villages, they did not say. As the seasons turned from planting to harvest, so Alawen’s fertility was displayed. Her belly grew large with the child it carried. Midway through the longest night, with the flying of snow, Eira, their first daughter, was born.
~
So did Alawen live together with Arrdwr in the little village. Arrdwr was a farmer during the growing season, a skilled hunter when the ground was hard. Alawen became known as a healer and herbalist, caring for the women and children in the villages and countryside around Pwsyi. But she cared not for the company of men, and shunned them all except for her husband. The following year, in the midst of a long rain that ruined much of the harvest, Alawen gave birth to a second daughter and gave her the name Alaeth. Often would she be seen walking from village to village with Eira and Alaeth playing or sleeping upon sacks of herbs, or garden produce, in her small handcart.
So the years passed, and Alawen’s reputation as a healer grew. The women called upon her for help in childbirth or relief from sore feet. Some of the men resented her skill and the honour it brought to her and her family. It was not rare to hear the word gwrach whispered as she passed two men on the path. Out in the woods, as they drank around a fire after the hunt, they would utter it aloud: gwrach, witch. But she cared for their little ones, and healed their animals, so what they condemned in one breath they accepted with another.
When at last the way of women came upon Eira, so did Alawen’s belly swell once more. Though nearly past the time of motherhood, with the last flowering of her fertility she conceived her third daughter and brought her forth into the world. Resting upon a dry blanket spread out on fresh, soft straw, Alawen nursed her newest daughter with tears in her eyes.
“You have brought me new life,” she said to the child, “I shall call you Enaid.” The child paused for a moment to look toward her mother’s voice, then hungrily returned to her full breast.
That winter Eira was promised to Calad, a young farmer from a neighboring village, and with the spring planting they said their vows. Though it was a time of joy for Eira, for Alawen it was the beginning of sorrows. For she was, though Arddwr had nearly forgotten, of the Gwragedd Annwn. And the Gwragedd do not feel as mortals do. For as mortals express their joy with laughter and song, so the Gwragedd are wont to show their happiness with tears and lamentations. As the young couple completed their vows and kissed with passion, a shout went up from the gathered villagers, with laughter and singing, and good-natured cries of encouragement for the events of the marriage bed to come. But as Alawen looked on, tears came to her eyes. Slowly at first, unnoticed by those around her. But they came faster and faster, and her body shook, and she threw her head back and uttered a loud, piercing wail as of one in deepest grief. The crowd became silent, staring. A look of bewilderment came over Calad. Eira and Arddwr, suspecting, trembled with fear. Then another shriek from Alawen, and a bursting of uncontrollable, hysterical sobs. Arddwr, finally realizing what was happening and fearing his wife would be discovered for what she was, took her by the shoulders and shook her. There were gasps and mumbling in the crowd. It seemed Alawen would not be consoled, though in truth it was great joy she was expressing. In desperation Arddwr swung his open hand and slapped her face. Instantly she was silent. For a moment Alawen looked at her husband in shocked disbelief. Then, without a word, she turned and walked back to their hut. The crowd, no longer in a mood for celebration, dispersed each to their own homes leaving the young couple standing alone and wondering what had taken place. It started to rain.
Alone in their hut, Arddwr was truly repentant and Alawen forgave him. “But it cannot be forgotten,” she told him. “It is a most solemn anogaeth of the Gwragedd, and it cannot be forgotten. You must not strike me again, my love.” She came into his arms and he held her close, stroking her long silver hair.
~
When next the snow came again it came with a wrathful vengeance, freezing the earth like iron, the water as if it were hardest stone, and deep it lay upon the ground. The cold crept into each hut and the clothing people wore, threatening, if it were possible, to overcome the flames of their hearths. Many in Pwysi fell ill, and many of those lay wrapped in blankets upon the straw, near to death.
So it was with Alaeth. In the dark of the night her life spirit fought with the illness. A fire raged within her, and she was hot to the touch. Delirious, she thrashed about, throwing the blanket off her, exposing herself to the night chill that worsened her illness. Alawen sat with her all night, bathing her hot flesh with cool water and laughing quietly, under her breath, hoping no one would hear.
Arddwr slept an uneasy sleep nearby. In the stillness just before dawn he was awakened by fits of hysterical laughter. Every candle had been lit, and the oil lamp which hung in the corner. Alawen’s eyes sparkled, the wattle walls shook with her roars of joy. But it was not joy, and Arddwr knew it. Quietly he went to the corner where his daughter lay, as his wife danced around him. Alaeth had lost the struggle with her illness. Her skin was no longer warm. She was dead. Arddwr knelt beside her, bowing his head to kiss her brow. His eyes closed, flooding with tears, he withdrew into his grief and ceased to hear his laughing wife.
But those in the neighboring huts heard. Awakened by cries of laughter they came out in the early morning light to stand before Arddwr’s door in wonder. There sat Arddwr in silence, holding his lifeless daughter in his arms. And there sat the mother, back against the center pole of the hut shaking with tears of laughter. Arddwr looked from his wife to the people at the doorway, and back to her. Gently he lay Alaeth upon her blanket, and went to Alawen, kneeling before her.
“Dearest,” he said, feeling her grief as well as his own. “Dear Alawen, I know it is the deep grief of the Gwragedd you show, but,” he looked over his shoulder at the scandalized villagers, then back to her, “but can you not be silent if you cannot cry?”
Silent she was, for a moment, looking into her husband’s eyes. Then she suppressed a bubble of laughter, cutting off most of it in her throat though some made it past her clenched lips to spray his face. And then she could hold back no longer, letting herself go and laughing wildly.
“Alawen, don’t!” he shouted. “For the sake of all that is holy, don’t!” And he slapped her face. At once her laughter stopped.
“How could you?” she asked slowly, coldly, in disbelief. She rose and went to sit with her daughter, turning her back on her husband and the people at the door.
Arddwr uttered a dark curse, turned to the crowd and shouted, “Go home, all of you! There is nothing more here to see!” As they left, he fell to the floor weeping in agony. ~
Arddwr would not allow Alawen to be present for the burial of their daughter. He would not trust her strange emotions. So she stayed in the hut, the fire gone out, wrapped in several blankets against the cold. The Gwragedd have strong emotions, and they are easily offended. As the chill deepened in her body, the fire of anger rose in her heart. She rocked back and forth on the floor, nursing her rage as it grew. How
could he? she said to herself over and over again. How could he!
When at last he returned to the hut, weakened with his own grief, she was ready for him. She sprang at him with the rage of a wildcat, spitting and clawing at his face, pounding her fists upon his chest and shoulders. For a time he held her off as best he could, trying not to hit back, trying to see her rage as understandable, not deserving of retaliation. He tried to hold her wrists, to wrap his arms around her and pin her own flailing arms to her side. But her anger grew and she fought with increasing strength, at last breaking free. She slashed the nails of her right hand across his face, drawing blood in dark, red lines. And then her left hand swung to do the same. Unthinking, he raised his right arm in self defense to ward off the blow. His arm glanced off hers, and his closed fist hit her hard in the jaw. She swayed for a moment on uncertain feet, then her legs gave way and she collapsed on the floor.
Instantly and badly afraid, Arddwr dropped beside her, trying to take her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, as he begin to cry. “Oh, Alawen, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.” She looked at him from a growing distance, life seemingly gone from her eyes. “Alawen, I didn’t mean . . . can’t you forgive me?”
Alawen stood. Her flesh, grown cool, turning pale. There was the seeming of water in her hair and her clothes, and a smell of ancient lakes in the room. Quietly she turned and walked through the door, into the gathering dusk. Arddwr stood staring at the doorway. He knew he would not see her again. Behind him, in the dark shadows, stood young Enaid, her tears falling like droplets of lake water about her.
~
Alawen walked alone through the darkness on the eastern borders of the bogs. Beyond the bogs the marshes would begin. And beyond the marshes, the quiet waters of Llyn Hydd and Ynys y Gwragedd. She would not have left, she knew, if it depended upon her own will. But the anogaeth of her people was more than a vow, more than a taboo. It was the nature of who they were, who she was. Had she remained, she would have stopped living. But the ache in her heart was worse than the ache in her tender jaw. Guiltily, angry with herself, she suppressed a quiet laugh. And the heartache deepened.
Tales of Avalon Page 17
