With the mists of another morning the soft earth of the bogs became damp, and the damp became wet with marsh water. When finally her feet entered the waters of Llyn Hydd, the glamour on the lake lifted and she saw again the shores of Ynys y Gwragedd, her home.
~
Often in the years that followed Alawen returned to the heights overlooking Pwysi. Arddwr never did see her again, but she saw him often, watching as he worked in the fields. It seemed he would not find another wife, and she felt sorrow for him, but she would not return to him. Her journeys to Pwysi were for her daughters. Enaid had gone to live with her sister Eira, and Calad, for they now had children of their own and welcomed the help. Alawen would meet Enaid, Eira, and her three new granddaughters on the hillside. She would look after their health, and teach them the magic of the Gwragedd.
In time, at the gathering in of the harvest, Enaid took a husband of her own from the next village. She needed no glamour to seem a true mortal woman to him, for her father’s blood ran through her veins. But though her body was that of a mortal, the magic of the Gwragedd was in her spirit. The joining of her father and mother had produced in her a woman of great wisdom and surpassing beauty. She stood a head taller than all others in the village. Her skin was the color of starlight. Curling silver hair fell across her shoulders and over her breasts. Her eyes were blue and piercing. Her voice was swift and light, like the waters that fell along the slopes of the Mendydds which towered over the faraway marshes. She gave herself willingly and passionately to her young husband in the soft darkness of their bed, and in time gave birth to daughters of her own. Human descendants of the Gwragedd they were, who spread their ancient magic throughout the reaches of the Brythonic lands.
In time, Alawen’s visits to Pwysi ceased. But Enaid visited her often on Ynys y Gwragedd in the midst of Llyn Hydd, learning more of healing, and of the ways of women, and other wonders as well. Indeed, it is said that Enaid once visited the marshes of dark Cysgodion before ever the realm of Affalon came to be, a white spirit in the ancient darkness of those marsh waters, and so came to be called by some Gwen-hwyfar, the ancestress of a new myth that had not yet come into the world.
Chapter Eighteen XI. The Coming of the Lady
Before ever there were priestesses on Ynys y Niwl, the tiny island of Ynys Bol Forla was a sacred place, wrapped in the old tales of the women of the marshes. Morla’s Belly, it was called, for the softly rounded hill at its center resembled the full belly of a woman rich with child. Morla’s Tale is the oldest of tales, its origins hidden in the mists of the turning ages. And always, from time out of mind, Bol Forla has been the hope and refuge of those whose hope was lost, or whose sorrow was great. It was upon Morla’s hilltop that priestesses of Cysgodion stood and first looked across the channel to the shores of Ynys y Niwl, where lies Glyn y Ffynhonnau, the deep valley of healing springs between Bryn y Afalau and Bryn Ddraig.
In the oldest of days, women came alone to Bol Forla to seek the aid of the goddess. But across open waters, in the marshes of the north, a community of priestesses had gathered around the Dark Lady of Ynys y Cysgodion. For many generations they had kept to themselves, for most had fled there from fearsome men; husbands, chieftains, warriors. Some arrived carrying children, either in their arms or their bellies. In time the small community grew, and rumors of their existence drifted in the marsh currents. But their time had not yet come. The Dark Lady, as her ancestors and her descendents, wove spells of shadows that kept them hidden from the wide world. Their time had not yet come, but they knew they would be needed one day, so they studied the ways of women and of goddesses, and learned the lore of healing and the magic of the marshes.
~
Three women from the hill country of Crib Pwlborfa slowly wove their way through the southern marshes. The old walkway had not yet been built, so they traveled in a flat bottomed marsh boat. Braith, youngest of the three, poled or paddled as the waterways demanded. Owena sat near the front watching for landmarks in the marsh, and cradling Llwyfren, who was with child, in her lap. The way to Bol Forla was well known. Owena had made the trip before with other women who faced danger in childbirth. But always there was the fear of a wrong turn, of being lost in the marsh as the time of birthing drew near. Owena was a skilled midwife, but the danger Llwyfen faced required the magic of the sacred isle.
The day was already waning when at last Owena found the marker for the final channel leading to the shore of Ynys Bol Forla. In her lap Llwyfen moaned softly, drifting in and out of consciousness. As the water grew more shallow, Braith leaned upon her alder pole and pushed the little boat ever forward.
It was a familiar problem. Llwyfen had given birth seven times before, and three of her children had survived infancy. Now she was beyond the age of safe childbirth, but her husband was not beyond the age of his pride and virility. She had carried the child safely nearly to its birthing time, but in the past several days things had begun to go wrong. The bleeding had begun as little more than spotting, which she washed away in the cold stream near her hut. It was not uncommon among her people when an older woman approached her delivery. But the flow grew until she had to fold a piece of woven cloth and bind it between her legs. When even that did no good, her daughters lay her upon her sleeping furs and sent for Owena, the midwife.
The sun was rising upon a fateful day when Owena arrived at the hut.
“The bleeding is getting worse,” said Braith, Llwyfen’s eldest daughter. “I fear for her life.” Her own face was somber as she bathed her mother’s with cool water. Llwyfen had already begun to drift into unconsciousness.
Owena removed the blood soaked cloth, looking, then feeling into the birth canal. She washed her hands in a bowl of warm water beside the cot, then felt the hard round surface of Llwyfen’s belly, tracing the ridges and outlines of the child within. When she was at last finished, she turned to Braith.
“Where is your father, child?” she asked.
“He left at the full moon and has not returned,” said Braith. “Fishing,” he told us when he left. “But clearly he is gone.” There was contempt in Braith’s quiet words, and a hardened coldness beyond her thirteen summers.
Owena sighed. This problem, too, was familiar. She took Braith’s hand and led her from the hut.
“She is in grave danger,” Owena said. She is too old to be giving birth. Her womb is tired and damaged. It has grown too small. The child has not turned. Its feet are nearest the birth canal. All this has caused the placenta to be low, and it covers the birth opening.”
“Will she live?” Braith asked. “Will the child live?”
Owena was silent for long moments. “I do not know. The flow of blood is from the damaged placenta, and it will get worse. If we cannot turn the child and it comes forth feet first, there is grave danger of compressing the cord. We may lose the child from suffocation before we lose your mother from loss of blood.”
Tears welled in Braith’s eyes. But her voice was calm with the strength of sudden womanhood. “Then what shall we do?” she asked.
“We will go to Bol Forla for the birth,” said Owena. Perhaps the goddess will help us.”
~
And so it was that as the dusk of evening gathered, the bottom of their small boat came to rest upon the mud of Ynys Bol Forla, among the tangle of willows that grew along the shore. Gently as possible, daughter and midwife moved the unconscious form of Llwyfen and lay her upon furs arranged over the soft carpet of moss below the willow branches. Llwyfen moaned in her delirium, the air about them filled with the silver metallic scent of blood. Again Owena felt the hard belly, inspected the birth canal that was wet and slick with the bleeding. Braith held her mother’s hand, placed her own hand upon Llwyfen’s brow and found it hot. Silently, she prayed to the goddess. Lady of the marshes, save my mother from danger as you once saved Morla.
“Now there is a fever,” said Owena, sensing the reason for Braith’s new concern. “She is beyond my skill, and I have not seen the god
dess come to help in troubles such as this.”
“Then she shall surely die here,” said Braith, tears in her eyes once again. And they sat in silence. After a time Owena spoke again.
“Child, you have heard the tales of Ynys y Cysgodion?” It was not really a question. All who lived in the marshes or on the surrounding ridges knew the tale of the mysterious Dark Lady. It was rumored that she had lived from time out of mind in the shadows of the north marshes. Some said she was a sorceress, others that her seeming magic was only great wisdom, and skill in the healing arts. Some said she was not mortal, but the very spirit of the marshes, perhaps the goddess herself. Tales of recent memory told of women who had found their way to the Dark Lady’s realm, forming a community of priestesses.
“I have heard of the Lady,” Braith whispered. “And of Cysgodion. But I know not where it is.”
“Not far,” said Owena. “Across the open water to the north, in the dark marshes that lie in the shadows of Bryniau’r Mendydd.”
“You have been there?” Braith asked.
“Not myself. But I think I might find it. I know not whether the Dark Lady ever leaves that place, but it is rumored that sometimes her priestesses travel through the marsh to aid those in distress. Perhaps I can find them, find help.”
Braith protested. “But you cannot leave us here alone, without the aid of a midwife. What if the child comes in the night?”
Owena hugged her to her breast, and kissed her brow. “Child, you have every woman’s knowledge of birthing. I have told you my skills cannot add enough to yours to save Llwyfen now. And your presence as daughter carries more magic for her than my presence as midwife. Keep her comfortable as you can. With the help of the goddess, I will return by the sunrise.”
And, with her words, darkness fell upon Ynys Bol Forla. ~
Some time later Owena paddled alone across the open water to the northwest. Keeping the pole star, the tail of the Little Bear, before her over the bow she sought the border of the northern marshes. To her right, in the starlight, rose the dark tor of Ynys y Niwl. The mist shrouded isle was uninhabited, had always been, as far as anyone knew. It was wrapped in mystery as in mist. The tales told of great power that lay in the dark belly of the tor, and of healing springs that flowed from its side. But no one had ever dared brave the unknown magic of its shores. Owena shuddered, though the night was not cold, and turned her eyes once again to the north, happy to leave the shadow of Niwl behind. Not long after, in the full darkness of the night, her boat slipped through the first reeds of the northern marshes.
She had no skill for finding her way through the twisting channels. Nor did she know where Ynys y Cysgodion lay. Guide me, she said, more to the marsh itself than to any goddess. Guide me to the isle of priestesses. Keep Llwyfen alive until I return. Strengthen Braith’s heart.
Suddenly her boat broke free from the reeds and drifted out into open water again. Owena could sense the broad expanse of a lake, but the darkness was deeper than ever it had been. The cry of an owl told her that solid land was nearby. An island?
“It is Cysgodion,” she breathed aloud to her own spirit. “It must be Cysgodion. I must have found it.”
The island emerged slowly out of the darkness, old and twisted yews along its shore rising into the star filled night. Then, under the branches, the light of a small lantern appeared. And then another. Thank you, Lady, Owena said within, and this time to the goddess. And she paddled harder, driving the little boat up onto Cysgodion’s shore. She stepped from the boat, and two women clad in dark robes held their lanterns high before her face.
“Why are you here?” asked the older one, in a level voice, gentle, but bold with authority.
“I am Owena, midwife on Crib Pwlborfa across the marshes. I have charge of a woman who lies near death on Ynys Bol Forla.” Owena looked over her shoulder, as though searching for Llwyfen in the darkness across the marshes.
“What is that to us? Why are you here?”
Owena dared not ask for the Dark Lady. “It said there are priestesses on this isle who are skilled in the healing arts and the magic of the marshes. My skills alone can no longer save the woman. I have come seeking compassion, and help.
“I am Glynys,” said the older priestess, holding her lantern nearer her own face. “And this,” indicating the other, “is Gwenyn. Come.”
The two priestesses of Ynys y Cysgodion turned into the shadows of the yew forest, and Owena followed closely behind. They walked quickly, but without sound, along the dark pathways. The paths twisted and turned like the marsh channels, Owena noted, branching out here and there to one side or another. She wondered how anyone could find their way through such darkness, lanterns or no. Finally they emerged into a small clearing, where several round huts circled about a central fire. The priestesses led her to a hut on her left, pulling aside a woven door curtain to enter. It was empty of anything, save a few hides on the floor. Glynys hung her lantern on a crossbeam under the thatch.
“Wait here,” she said, and the two priestesses left.
The small lantern was no more than a rushlight. Owena sat on a hide in the near darkness and waited. Outside there was silence, except for the music of the night insects, and the calling of an owl.
Finally Gwenyn returned with a bowl of hot barley soup and a wineskin. “You will be hungry,” she said, “This will help.”
“There is urgency in this matter,” Owena protested.
“This I know,” answered Gwenyn in a voice that was suddenly softness and compassion. “The Lady will come soon.”
Owena had no answer for this revelation. She took the offered bowl and wineskin and began to eat as Gwenyn went back out into the night.
~
Owena knew not how far spent the night had become. Inside the hut she could not see the stars, but feared they had turned far in their nightly course. Silently she prayed for Llwyfen and Braith on Bol Forla. She reached out in her mind to find them, but had not that gift. Grant that they both are still safe, she thought.
Owena knew the Lady the moment she entered the hut, followed closely by Glynys and Gwenyn. She rose, and bowed in silence. The Lady took her hand in a gentle clasp, and looked into her eyes.
“Sit,” she said, and the four women sat together on the floor hides. Gwenyn and Glynys had each brought rushlights with them, brightening the inside of the hut.
“I am Vivian,” the lady said. “You have come for our help?”
“Vivian,” Owena breathed. The Lady who sat before her seemed younger than she should be, though an air of the ages hung about her. Her eyes were dark and deep, her skin a warm olive in color, showing no lines of age that could be seen by rushlight. Her hair was long and black, reaching the floor where she sat. She had given Owena the impression of height when she entered, but, sitting on the floor, she seemed smaller than the priestesses. Smaller, yet wiser and more powerful.
“The tales tell of Vivian from generations past,” Owena said. “The tales say you are immortal.”
The Lady smiled. “Tales say many things,” she answered. “Some helpful, some not. My mother bore the name Vivian, as her mother before her and many grandmothers before that. One day I will have a daughter who will outlast me, and doubtless people will call her Vivian when I have gone.”
A cloud came across Owena’s face.
“Do not fear, my sister,” Vivian assured her. “Power is not dependent upon immortality. Mere humans may do magic if need be. You have brought need to Bol Forla?”
Quickly, Owena told the tale. The night was long gone, and she feared Llwyfen would not last until dawn. Feared for young Braith, who held her mother, alone, in the darkness.
“People of the marshes often bring us children who are born and abandoned on Bol Forla,” said Vivian. “Wild and dark children, who they believe to be part sprite as well as human. Children born with too much marsh power in them, or children who are alone, their parents lost to the waters. They are, all of them, brought up here as beauti
ful beings, blessed by the goddess, children of love. Most of the girls stay, joining the community of priestesses. Boys are eventually fostered out to the tribes, where they find new families. Many children come to us from Bol Forla. But rarely do we leave Cysgodion to travel across the marshes.”
Vivian’s words were a picture of the way things were, not meant as words of rejection. But Owena’s heart sank. When she spoke, her words were barely more than silence.
“If you do not come, my Lady, the woman will die.”
“I will not leave Cysgodion,” said Vivian. “For I am Cysgiodion.” She paused, and hope drained slowly from Owena’s eyes.
“But do not fear. I will send help. Gwenyn and Glynys will go with you this night.” Only then did Owena see the two priestesses wore traveling cloaks, and bore packs slung over their shoulders. She turned again to Vivian, who was still speaking.
“Glynys and Gwenyn will go with you. They are skilled in the healing of women and wise in the ways of childbirth. May it be they can help you.” She did not say also the priestesses were wise in the ways of the goddesses, skilled in marsh magic. Owena hoped this was so. Llwyfen was in much need.
Glynys rose, and Gwenyn after her. “Come,” she said, and they went out into the late night, leaving Vivian alone in the rushlight.
~
First light was appearing in the east, behind the tor of Ynys y Niwl, as Bol Forla came into sight. But darkness and a deep foreboding hung over the tiny island. The night creatures had fallen silent, the folk of the day had not yet arisen. Only the sound of Owena’s ashen paddle in the water broke the deathly stillness around them. And when, as they neared, they saw the solitary figure of Braith standing on the shore, Owena knew they had come too late.
Together in silence they washed Llwyfen’s body, and that of the daughter who had come dead into the world. They wrapped them both in clean cloths brought by the priestesses, and put them in the boat, to take out to the deep, open waters. As they rested beside a small fire, it was Owena who finally spoke. She put her arm around Briath’s shoulders, pulling the younger woman close.
Tales of Avalon Page 18
