Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature? What does the mystery of this place and the search for the cauldron convey to your spirit? Contemplate the nature of the cauldron that may be located in this and the subsequent forts.
Prydwen calls you to journey to the next island.
Caer Feddwit: The Fort of Mead Intoxication
This fort is represented by the thyroid gland. It sits on a floral island, its towers rising from a sea of green; bees buzz busily about its turrets. Guard bees protect its entrance, and the queen hums from within. This is the place of communication and expression; it is the manner by which we converse with the world. It presents us with what nourishes but also what poisons; its intoxicating nature can convince us to believe our own illusions. Yet all that we find pleasurable lies here, and in it our ability to laugh and be joyous, to carouse and be entertained and to entertain. It can be addictive. This is the point where we express our emotions; it is the gateway from the forts to the world beyond.
Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature?
A beacon of light from the brow of Taliesin alerts you to board the ship. Prydwen sighs as she docks at the next island.
Caer Rigor: The Fort of Hardness and Rigidity
This fort is represented by the adrenal glands. This tall, mountainous island rises sharply from the sea; its flanks are decorated with wildflower meadows, woodlands, and green plains. A single fort sits precariously on a cliff top whilst ruined buildings adorn the lowlands. This is the place of stumbling, of harshness and falling; it is the place of the ego. It is the most dangerous of all the forts. Here we may fall into the “I’m not good enough” or “I’m right and you’re wrong” mentality. Our principles lie here, and our ability to stand and fight or take flight. We may be immovable and stubborn on this island, overly protective of the cauldron. Our impulses are controlled here, whether they are rational or irrational. Rigor can cause us to be stuck in our ways, to become petrified. Herein lie our personal strengths and our determination; the ability to make things happen is here. We may construct from this point and also destroy. If we stumble, do we fall? If we fall, do we succumb to defeatism or do we rise to our feet, dust ourselves off, and start again?
Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature?
The bellows of Arthur’s lungs call your name from the edge of the island, and you return to Prydwen. The sea laps gently at her bough as she berths at the next island.
Caer Wydr: The Fort of Glass
This fort is represented by the thymus gland. This island blinds you—it is made entirely of glass, some of it rounded and smoothed by the sea, others pillars sharp as a sickle and gnarling from the island’s bedrock. Its towers are made entirely of clear glass, its staircases, floors, and rooms visible through its walls. Upon its walls thousands of faceless people stand watching you; you call to them but they do not answer. This is the point of being “you”—it is the centre of the self, your point of perspective. It is the place where you believe what you see, not knowing that you are looking through glass, which, although transparent, alters your view. This is the place of liminality; it sets all inherited patterns, how and when we die, and what we are susceptible to. This is fate, which is unknown; all uncertainty exists here, but so does our potential to access its mystery. Caer Wydr affects the manner by which we perceive all the other forts.
Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature?
Prydwen’s sails flap in the breeze as you board once more and cross the expanse of sea towards…
Caer Goludd: The Fort of Guts and Impediment
This fort is represented by the endocrine function of the pancreas. The towering heights of Goludd rise from flames as bright as the sun, which burns to the west of it; in the east is the fullness of the moon. These are the fires of your passion and anger; it is what we feel in the pits of our stomachs. It is ruled by fire. This place represents our riches, both physical and spiritual, and also our material wealth and gain. However, it is also a place of frustration and may imply gloom, for it is a place that floats between light and dark. Here we reward ourselves after trials we have won. It is what defines how we learn, what we learn, and what we allow to influence us. Our vanity comes from here, as does our smugness and snobbery. It is here that we encounter all our fiery emotions—sexual impulses are invoked here; our lustfulness and the primal drive of carnality rise from this place. Our passion—which in turn can lead to anger, grief, despair, and the influx of energy that compels us forward—stems from here. The song of Goludd can be sensed in the gnawing claw that we feel in our solar plexus when confronted with extreme emotions.
The fires of Goludd can only be tempered by our ability to control them. They may instill fear that implies we do not always like what we feel deep within ourselves at times.
Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature?
Prydwen’s wooden body creaks against the next island as you disembark onto…
Caer Vandwy: The Fort of Mystery
This fort is represented by the reproductive glands, the ovaries and the testes. The island rises brightly and magnificently from the sea, its base a single piece of pure gold; an impossibly high tower made entirely of crystal reaches into the sky. Steps hewn out of the gold lead you to the tower. The floor of the tower is adorned by a Celtic cross carved into the gold; beautifully elaborate, its knots twist and turn with glorious precision. In the centre, where the arms of the cross meet, is a brilliant beam of blue light, like that from a neutron star. It arises from a pit of utter darkness. There is music here and power beyond comprehension. This is the fort that combines all other forts into cohesion; it is the place that sings of our origination. All the wisdom and knowledge of all the worlds are within its walls; the light is the music of magic and creation. This is the place of knowing, where we make sense of the mysteries. Its danger is inexperience, foolhardiness, and arrogance; its message is that one cannot conceptualise what one has no concept of. Yet it teaches us that we are the sum totality of all that has been before us. Does the light stream from the cauldron?
Does the cauldron reside here? If so, what is its nature?
You embark the ship for the final crossing to…
Caer Ochren: The Fort of Edges
This fort is represented by the pineal gland. The sky is dark here; the castle sits gloomily and silently amidst the rocks of grey and black. Its towers are many and dimly lit by an unknown source. Within the fort is a perplexing array of mirrors—seemingly every wall, each ledge, floor, and ceiling are constructed of mirrors. In the centre of the vast hall sits an alien animal; its silver head holds a lantern between its horns. Once lit, the fort shines brightly as light reflects sharply from the mirrored surfaces. Like the third eye, the pineal gland, this place is activated by light. The secrets of the moon hide within this place. It is the home of mirrored observation; the ebb and flow of personality live here. This is the place where we think we see ourselves. In actuality, we see only a reflection, which is an image in reverse. From here we reflect what we want to present to the world; we may fall into another’s footsteps here and become sheep. Remember, the moon does not shine by its own light, but by another’s. By whose light do you shine? Is it your own? We may judge ourselves harshly in Ochren, but remember that what we see in the mirror is not a true representation. Perception and effectuality live here, as do the limitations of our intelligence.
You sense Taliesin and Arthur beside you. They ask you a question: “Is the cauldron within this place? What is its nature?”
They lead you back to Prydwen. From her decks you raise from your feet, above the sea of Annwn, and back into your mortal coil.
• • •
The above system serves to demonstrate the complexity of cauldrons within the Celtic continuum. Although the journey appears to navigate through a sea of islands, it is, in fact, a
journey into the cauldron; the entire experience is contained within it. And Prydwen, like Cerridwen in our tale, is the divine feminine power needed to ensure a successful and fruitful journey that deeply transforms. Utilised as a template for exploration of the self, this technique aligns one to the wisdom of the past made applicable to the modern age.
The cauldron teaches us the nature of isolation as a valued and necessary tool for development. We may share experiences collectively as a group, a grove, or a coven. But the journey into the womb of the witch goddess or into aspects of the self must be conducted alone. Support is essential, but a guiding hand is limited to being on the periphery. The isolation we sense within the cauldron is tantamount to death before the necessary rebirth as an initiate of the mysteries; this is further elaborated upon in the section devoted to Gwion Bach. The cauldron embodies the darkness before birth; it heightens our insecurities, our fears and demons that are projected onto the dark walls of our psyche. The period of gestation, as in any form of training, is lengthy; it does not occur overnight. Instead we must endure the solitude, the isolation, and the darkness in order to understand our fears, flaws, and compromised personalities, and acknowledge them as essential components of the whole. A journey into self and into the mysteries is not intended to destroy or negate our multifaceted personas, but instead it facilitates the acceptance of what and who we are in relation to our tribes, our families, our friends, nature, and the universe in its entirety.
Exercise
Take a moment to imagine the great cauldron of Cerridwen sitting on flames that relentlessly lick at its belly. The surface of its contents simmer, casting great pillars of steam into the air; the fragrance of a thousand herbs and berries tickles your nostrils. The cauldron is enormous, large enough to accommodate eight men. From its edge you cast yourself into its belly, the boiling liquid searing your skin, and you descend into the darkness. The cauldron has no bottom—it is endless, it reaches into the subtle realms of Awen; each molecule of your body responds, and in a flash of light, your body disassembles into its component atoms. Your body vanishes yet your consciousness remains, though not quite in the same manner as in the apparent world—it knows more, it is more than the sum total of the body. It is all that was, all that ever will be—all the sciences, magic, and wisdom of all the worlds are known to you at that point, as they were prior to your spirit condensing into the density of your human body. You possess no eyes to see by means of light, but you sense the apparent world above the simmering surface of the cauldron’s contents; moving towards it, the molecules of your body reassemble, and you emerge, body unscathed, from the bubbling vessel. Floating as if carried on a plane of glass, you rise into the air and descend gracefully onto the soft green grass near the lakeshore. A smile caresses your features as you utter, “I am from the cauldron born.”
Record your meditation in your journal.
[contents]
26. Lynch, Prehistoric Anglesey.
27. Green, Exploring the World of the Druids.
28. Taken from the Second Branch of the Mabinogi of Branwen, translated by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838.
29. The Mabinogi of Manawydan, Son of Llyr, translated by the author in 2011.
30. Parker, The Four Branches of the Mabinogi, 418.
31. Annwn is from the Welsh annwfyn, meaning “very deep” or “not-world.” It exists beneath the world and connected with Taliesin’s inspiration. Haycock, Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin.
32. Preiddeu Annwfyn, “The Spoils of Annwn,” translated by the author.
Morfran Afagddu
the dance of darkness
• • •
Morfran, the son of Tegid—no man laid his weapon in him at Camlan, for he was so ugly, everyone thought him to be an attendant demon; he had hair on him like a stag.
Culhwch ac Olwen33
The brightest of lights cast the darkest of shadows. The journey to the spirit is one we embark on alone; we may share the company and warmth of others, but ultimately it is a solitary quest. These roller-coaster adventures will eventually cause us to encounter the shadow, or the “Other”—the darker side of the spirit, which casts long, sigh-filled shadows. This is the place of melancholy and anger, of shame and loathing—the place of pain and torment, passion and secrets. The shadow emulates the merciless aspects of the natural world, where nature acts simply in accordance to its nature. This is the teaching of Morfran Afagddu.
We are told very little about this elusive character within the manuscripts. The inclusion of a few words in the script alludes to a complex character who tells us more about ourselves than we may care to admit. It seems on first glance that we are informed of his existence only in relation to his mother’s concern for him—his ugliness is the catalyst for the brewing of Awen. He is the reason behind Cerridwen’s devotion to the spell she conjures. We are told nothing of his nature but only of his appearance; he is the darkness that is in direct opposition to the light and radiance of his sister, Creirfyw. To begin to understand the nature of Morfran Afagddu, we must initially look to the meaning of his name. Within the text we are introduced to this character thusly:
…they named him Morfran, but because of his ugliness they called him Afagddu (meaning “utter darkness”).34
We are not offered any other explanation as to why the child, within one single sentence, has his entire persona brought into question. Consequently he is stripped of his birth name. We are informed that he is named Morfran—this title consists of two Welsh words, the first being mor, meaning “sea,” and the second fran, which is a mutation of bran, meaning “crow” or “raven” or another bird of the Corvid family. The modern Dictionary of the Welsh Language also describes the word as being synonymous with cormorant. Typically within the Welsh language, names are not bestowed on an individual flippantly and without reason (unlike name-giving in the twenty- first century!); they are normally descriptive of a person’s disposition, standing, profession, or rank. They tell us something about the person before we even meet them. In this case, we are told that this individual, this child, was initially given a name synonymous with the sea and with the Corvid family of birds. The word bran, according to the University of Wales’s Dictionary of the Welsh Language is in direct relation to black carrion birds, which alludes to the title of darkness that is eventually bestowed upon the child.
We are also informed that the name as a whole can be related to cormorant, which upon closer examination tells us a little more about the nature of Morfran. The cormorant is a black, glossed bird, tinged with bronze and deep blues. Their uncanny ability to dive to significant depths in search of food has been exploited by man for centuries; in fact, King James the First had a Master of Cormorants on the Thames. Alas, their feathers can become waterlogged, which accounts for the heraldic posture they assume on land in order to dry their plumes. Metaphorically, the cormorant dives into the sea—the “mor” compound of our character’s name. We have already noted how the sea in Celtic myth is synonymous with the spirit, and, within “The Spoils of Annwn” it holds the islands of the “self.” Celtic lore also stipulates that the spirit, upon the death of the body, dives into the Western sea to the lands of youthfulness that lie beneath the waves. The cormorant interacts with the realm of sea, the place of mystery, and the implication is that this child is a creature synonymous with the sea.
The suffix bran gives us another useful reference. We previously touched on the divine family of Branwen and Bendigeidfran and the fact that they are the children of Llyr. Not only do their names suggest the Corvid family, they are also linked to the sea by means of their father Llyr, the sea god, a quality shared in the name given to Morfran. This implies that the quality of Morfran is indicating his importance within the watery, salty realm of the sea and of his penetration into it. He interacts with this world, but in a manner that is not immediately obvious or str
aightforward.
Afagddu—from the Welsh y fagddu—is given the description “a night of unordinary darkness” in the Dictionary of the Welsh Language.35 It is also described as meaning utter darkness, extreme blackness, and gloom, and has been used figuratively to mean hell. Surely just being a little ugly or having a face that only a mother could love does not justify changing a child’s name to meaning “he of utter darkness”—it seems somewhat dramatic, to say the least! But Cerridwen and Tegid do this for good reason; they are aspects of the mystery, and they understand the nature of their child and what he represents. At some level even Cerridwen knows that he will not receive Awen; it is not fated.
In the epic tale of Culhwch ac Olwen, one of the earliest Arthurian sagas, we find a reference to Morfran Afagddu that can be found as the subtitle of this section. In it he exudes a supernatural quality that is otherworldly; his appearance strikes fear in the hearts of men, who do not even attempt to destroy him. His ugliness is apparent here, as is his seemingly demonic nature. The men in battle do not attempt to slay him for good reason: he is representative of their shadow, and on some level they understand this. Yes, he is vilified, but within this vilification they perceive themselves. To destroy him would be to destroy an essential aspect of themselves. Immediately after the sentence relating to Morfran Afagddu we see a counterbalance, akin to his sister in the original tale. It reports a figure named Sandde Pryd Angel and how “no one laid his spear in him at Camlan because he was so beautiful, everyone thought him to be an angel.”36
This reinforces the fact that without light there can be no darkness; without darkness there can be no light. They are essential; we may perceive them as antagonistic qualities when, in fact, they are not—they complement the other, they need each other in order to exist. This polarity is further exemplified in another reference to Morfran Afagddu that is found in the Trioedd Ynys Prydein: The Triads of the Island of Britain, a vast collection of wisdom, teaching, and history presented in a tripartite format. Triad number 41 states:
From the Cauldron Born Page 10
