The Bwy Hir Complete Trilogy

by Lowri Thomas

  ‘Yes it is, son,’ his father replied solemnly, ‘any questions?’

  ‘About a million.’ Gwyn smiled weakly.

  His father chuckled. ‘Well, let’s start with one and work our way up. Anwen is making us a cuppa, but we’ve five minutes or so.’

  Gwyn gathered his thoughts before speaking. ‘Are the Bwy Hir gods?’ was his first question.

  Dafydd sighed and scratched at his head. ‘Not exactly, Gwyn, they are the children’s children of gods’ sons who mated with humans, so I suppose that makes them half demigod half human, the Bible mentions them briefly, but so do many books throughout history including our Mabinogion.’

  ‘Are they really giants?’ was Gwyn’s next question.

  Dafydd smiled, he had asked his father the exact same question. ‘They are very tall, but giant is a slight exaggeration, although I suppose that depends on who you ask, a child would say they were giants … They are much taller than the average human, all of them are between six and a half to eight feet tall, give or take an inch.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’ Gwyn was getting enthralled.

  ‘Of course I’ve seen them!’ Dafydd chuckled. ‘As will you, twice a year at a special ceremony which will be explained to you.’ Dafydd frowned momentarily. ‘Once you’re initiated you will receive instructions from the Druids.’

  ‘Real Druids, not just people dressed like Druids, like in the Eisteddfod?’

  ‘Yes, Gwyn, real Druids, they are powerful, learned men and as you are aware, they can wield what is known as derwydd yn tan: Druid’s fire, but they are not supposed to use it against us.’ Dafydd’s eyebrows knitted together, the corners of his mouth drawn down.

  ‘So why did the Druid try–’

  ‘Tea’s ready!’ Anwen called from downstairs.

  ‘Enough for now, Gwyn.’ Dafydd said, ‘Hide the book away and we’ll speak again later.’

  Anwen could hear her father and brother talking in the room above her head. She couldn’t tell exactly what was being said, but she supposed it was something to do with the book that had been removed from its hiding place under the kitchen tile. She’d spotted it the minute she walked in; the tile had a sooty fingerprint on it that wasn’t there earlier, she should know, she was the only one who ever cleaned the floor.

  She’d secretly read that notebook from cover to cover, running her fingers over all the illustrations, absorbing every line and note. The book described the Bwy Hir as ‘the race of giants, blighted demigods, fallen angels, their glorious beauty stupefying to behold …’

  Anwen agreed on the ‘beautiful’ bit. She had fallen in love with Taliesin the moment she clapped eyes on him, but ‘giant’ – her grandfather had over exaggerated; Taliesin was tall, at least six feet tall, but definitely not a giant. Her grandfather had been a small birdlike man, her father’s and Gwyn’s size had come from her grandmother’s side of the family. Apparently her grandmother was a tall, buxom, no-nonsense woman who’d stood a head taller than her husband and had been twice as wide. Anwen smiled to herself, my grandfather liked them big, just like me.

  She’d told Taliesin about her grandfather’s secret book. He’d laughed as she told him all she’d read. He hadn’t confirmed or rejected any of her grandfather’s observations, only warned her of the dangers of “playing with fire”.

  She lost her smile as her thoughts turned inward, she’d had a gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach since she’d woken up – something happened last night, she just wasn’t sure exactly what. What if someone knew? Anwen shook herself, no-one could know, she and Taliesin had kept their secret well. But reading the leather bound book had shown her a hidden world, had inspired an understanding of what lay concealed just beyond sight, the myth made real. She worried what would happen if the Druids found out, or her father, or anyone for that matter.

  The thought of Taliesin’s name triggered a rush of emotions, her stomach fluttered and her breath quickened. She wouldn’t see him again for another week, not unless he contacted her first. Would he contact her with everything that had happened last night?

  She heard footfalls on the stairs and tapped the rim of the mugs with a teaspoon before delivering them to the outstretched hands. Gwyn looked tired, his eyes were red rimmed and sleepy, but he gave her a grateful smile and took a sip of the steaming brew.

  ‘Thank you, Anwen.’ Her father held his mug in both hands as he sat at the table. Gwyn took the chair opposite, shoulders sagging.

  ‘Dinner won’t be ready for at least half an hour,’ Anwen piped up, as she checked the carrots just beginning to simmer.

  ‘That’s lovely Anwen, thanks for making the effort. As tired as we all are I thought it would be bread and cheese tonight.’ Her father’s voice was low and gruff, a sure sign he was exhausted.

  ‘Have you slept at all, Dad?’ Gwyn asked.

  ‘No, son. Maybe later, you know I can never sleep in the day.’ He lifted his head as if listening to something and then Bara began to growl.

  The lights dimmed momentarily and Dafydd sprang into action, he pretended to look through the kitchen window and wave at someone approaching the door.

  ‘Anwen, a representative of the Farmers Union is here, go on upstairs while I deal with him.’ Dafydd made a move to the back door.

  ‘But, Dad, the dinner will spoil!’ complained Anwen.

  ‘Upstairs now, stay there until I call you, Gwyn will watch the oven.’ He escorted his daughter to the hallway, blocking her view of the back door. He waited until she was upstairs before opening the back door and closing it again. Turning back into the hallway the apparition of a Druid was already standing behind him. Dafydd led the guest into the kitchen and shut the door tight, leaving Bara excluded in the hallway.

  Gwyn sat open mouthed as the guest stood in the kitchen and removed his cowl. Dafydd cuffed his son to stand up.

  ‘Greetings Mister Morgan,’ drawled the Druid in a heavy Welsh accent, ‘I bring you glad tidings, your son’s initiation may begin. Please, let us sit and deliberate this honour, although first may we extend our condolences at the loss of your barn.’

  Anwen sat at the top of the stairs and bristled. Not only was she excluded again, but the dinner would be ruined. She knew who the hooded figure was: a Druid. What concerned her was why the Druid was here. It had to be for Gwyn’s initiation, otherwise her father would have excluded him too.

  She bit her lower lip while she strained to hear, but she could hear nothing but muffled mumblings. If she tried to sneak to the door to listen the tell-tale creak of the stairs would give her away if Bara didn’t first, so she sat and she sulked, as did Bara.

  When the kitchen door finally opened Anwen slid back away from the stairs, curling her legs out of view and waited for the pretence of the back door to open and close again before stomping downstairs. Anwen knew the Druids had entered the house in an entirely different way.

  Gwyn sat in the kitchen, his face flushed with excitement. Anwen smelt the burning as soon as she entered the kitchen. She grabbed the boiled dry pan with a tea-towel and dragged it off the hotplate. Swinging the oven door open she lifted out the burnt remains of the shepherd’s pie and flung it on the table.

  ‘Bread and cheese it is then,’ she spat, and stormed back upstairs, slamming the door behind her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Anwen woke early the next morning, the bright sunlight shone through her window. She was in such a temper last night she hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. She’d thrown herself on her bed and then fallen into a dreamless deep sleep.

  Deciding whether to bother getting up or not, she listened as someone rattled around in the kitchen downstairs. Suddenly remembering it was Monday she jumped out of bed, she had work today.

  ‘Morning Anwen!’ her father said, between the piece of toast braced in his teeth while juggling a frying pan and a cup of tea. ‘Bacon, sausage and egg to start the day.’ He passed her a cup.

  ‘Where’s Gwyn?’ She asked as she noted
the spilled grease slowly slipping down the front of her Aga.

  ‘Dai Jones and the gang are on the way to clear away what’s left of the barn before we rebuild, Gwyn’s getting the tractor ready.’ He placed a greasy cooked breakfast in front of her.

  ‘Can I have a ride to work today?’ Anwen asked, as she pushed the congealing mess around her plate.

  ‘No work today, Anwen,’ her father replied, as he started piling greasy dishes into the sink.

  ‘What do you mean no work? I’m working at the bakery today, it’s Monday.’

  ‘No, I’ve phoned the bakery, told them you won’t be in this week, what with your sore throat and the fire and all. They were very understanding.’

  ‘I haven’t got a sore throat!’ Anwen exclaimed, pushing her plate away.

  ‘Yes you have Anwen, terrible sore throat, could be infected.’ Her father stared at her above his cup of tea.

  ‘No I haven’t–’ she began.

  ‘Yes you bloody well have, and you’re staying home for a week or so until you get better and that my girl, is the end of that!’ he huffed.

  Anwen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Why did her father want her to have a sore throat? ‘Fine then …’ She stood up. ‘If I’m not working, I’ll go for a walk.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ replied her father, ‘you’ll not been seen strolling around and make me a liar. You’ll stay in the house, ill, with a sore throat.’ Her father’s voice had begun to rise, his eyebrows knitting together.

  Anwen glared at her father and stormed back upstairs. Her father winced as she slammed her bedroom door. He hated falling out with Anwen, he always felt guilty. She had no-one to take her side, no mother to console her, no-one to speak on her behalf and make him see reason. He’d make it up to her he decided with a shrug of his shoulders, as soon as this blew over he’d buy her something nice, or whatever a seventeen year old girl wanted, he would see she had it. He stomped his feet into his Wellington boots at the back door and went out to join his son in the day’s tasks.

  Fuming again, Anwen sat on her bed and cried tears of frustration. She was scared that her father was so jumpy and wanted to keep her locked up indoors; did he know?

  She threw her head back onto her pillow and let the tears fall. She hated feeling so angry all the time of late. She wasn’t used to crying at every opportunity. She had a big brother to contend with in a house full of men, she didn’t usually cry, she usually got even instead. So why the tears? Perhaps she was just tired and hungry. She’d skipped the meal the evening before and the breakfast made her want to heave. Perhaps she was coming down with something after all?

  ‘I’m surprised the Council moved so quickly on rebuilding the barn, Dad.’ Gwyn shouted over the final splutters of the tractor engine as he turned off the ignition, feeling conspiratorial now that he was to be initiated.

  ‘So am I, Gwyn, but I’m grateful all the same.’ Dafydd scratched his head as he recalled the phone call he had received after the Druid had left.

  ‘Dafydd Morgan, its Ivor here.’ The small bland voice spoke down the telephone line. ‘I’m calling about the little accident in the barn.’ Ivor tutted down the phone. ‘Anyhow, I know you are up to date with your insurance and all, so we can get right on and start rebuilding before Winter comes upon us. The hay is all sorted and the feed, all the bits and pieces will be replaced. Don’t you worry about anything, it’ll all be set straight … oh, and Dafydd let’s not be hearing any wild tales of huge hounds lying dead in barns, that’s just mad talk that is and I’ve already told Trevor to stop his gossiping. Our friends in black are looking into the possibility of a strayed pack hound, but they would like to draw a line under the whole sorry incident, okay? Right we are then, I’ll speak to you soon.’ The line went dead.

  Dafydd hadn’t known what to make of the call, but his barn was being rebuilt, his livestock wouldn’t starve this Winter, and whatever was going on was far above his station and he’d just keep his head down, though why no-one had mentioned a missing Druid was beyond him, not even the Druid who came to prepare Gwyn for his initiation gave any hint they’d lost one of their own – strange times indeed.

  Dafydd’s musing was disturbed by the sound of vehicles ploughing up the track, he waved as the motley crew of local farmers and their sons arrived with gusto to commence the renovations.

  ‘Right then!’ shouted Dai Jones with a huge smile as he pulled his bulky frame from behind the steering wheel of his truck.

  Dai Jones was the Morgan’s closest neighbour and closest friend. They had known each other since dot, they had shared laughter and tears in equal measure over the years and Dafydd was glad Dai was helping with the renovations. ‘Let’s get started then.’ Dai clapped his hands together. ‘First things first though –who’s making the tea?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Afagddu stormed through the Halls of the Druid, hidden fury barely contained behind his iron mask of outward calm, kicking his robes before him as he charged towards his destination: the Kennels.

  Incensed by the incompetency of those around him, he descended upon the Kennel Keeper with malice. ‘Where is the Seeker?’ he bawled, spittle flying from his snarling lips.

  The Keeper shrank back in terror; you never crossed y Gigfan – the Raven. ‘I sent word to you Elder Afagddu, the Seeker has not returned, only his two hounds returned in the early hours of this morning,’ he stammered.

  ‘Not returned? A Seeker of the Druid just vanishes into thin air?’ Afagddu’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘My sources tell me his charred remains were found in a Chosen’s barn,’ he screamed, ‘and you cower before me flippantly exclaiming that he’s simply missing! We have lost a Druid and a potential new hound and no-one seems to know why!’

  The Keeper practically swooned at the onslaught. ‘Had word not reached me that you are the best Keeper these Halls have ever had I would strike you down where you stand, however …’ Afagddu resumed a presence of calm. ‘The fact the hounds returned to the kennels is a testament of their superior training for which you should be congratulated … I suggest you send a pack of hounds to hunt down whoever killed one of our own and discover why this has happened on the lands belonging to King Aeron’s chosen donor. I blame the foxes, they forever harry our hounds, the Pride must have sent them – find out!’

  The Seeker nodded his ascent and babbled promises of immediate action. With one final intimidating glower Afagddu gave a curt nod and left the Seeker quaking in his boots.

  ‘Well that takes care of one problem at least,’ Afagddu said to himself. ‘With an entire pack of hounds on a wild goose chase and harrying the queen’s precious foxes it should leave ample opportunity for him to spin his next web.’ It was unfortunate that Afagddu had lost an accomplice; the Seeker had been very helpful, very willing. Afagddu had almost felt sorry for the Seeker and the stupid babbling Keeper, or at least he would have if he had a shred of humanity left inside him.

  Smiling to himself, Afagddu lumbered his way up the central stone staircase towards King Aeron’s chambers. The sun was setting and he knew this was where Aeron would be, watching dusk claim one more day of Summer’s dwindling reign.

  Afagddu was breathless from his exertion upon reaching Aeron’s richly decorated antechamber. Heavy tapestries lined the walls; threads of gold and silver depicting hunting scenes and battles won. Woven rugs the colour of fresh blood decked the pitted stone floors and golden sconces adorned the walls, casting a rich flickering glow into the deepest shadows.

  Afagddu felt a cold breeze blow from under the bedchamber’s stout oak door and swirl past his feet. So, Aeron was wind casting again – he must be getting stronger.

  So was Afagddu. Not in the kind of power Aeron wielded, only Bwy Hir wrought celestial power. Afagddu’s power was knowledge and domination, a most formidable combination if used shrewdly, and he wanted more.

  Afagddu stood head and shoulders above his peers. He had literally clawed his way from the bottom, gaining aut
hority and influence quickly, rising through the ranks, shaping and guiding the Druids’ collective to new dominance and power, shattering all opposition, destroying enemies one by one, mercilessly and deviously. He knew he was hated and feared by many, avoided by all, but he didn’t care, he had power. Spinning webs within webs, he was an accomplished schemer. ‘Perhaps I would be better named y pry cop,’ he mused; the Spider was a far more apt name than the Raven.

  Afagddu rapped on the chamber door with his misshapen hand before admitting himself. Aeron was out on his huge rugged balcony, the doors thrown open to the elements. His back was to Afagddu facing out towards the mountain range beyond. Standing in a crucifix, his arms thrown wide, his head thrown back, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, Aeron looked magnificent as clouds billowed down the mountains at his command.

  Aeron was a lot stronger than Afagddu had expected. Well beyond wind casting, Aeron was already forcing the elements to his will. The Winter was going to be extremely harsh this year, Afagddu grinned peevishly.

  Reaching the presumption that Aeron may be some time, Afagddu retraced his steps to the antechamber to wait. Taking a seat on one of the bardic chairs lined against the far wall, he allowed himself the indulgence of fantasy.

  There were always rudiments to his fantasies that remained unaltered. In his dreams his spine was uncoiled, he always stood tall and proud. All his imaginings were violent in one way or the other, and every time he returned to reality he would always seek out someone on whom to inflict pain.

  This particular fantasy involved killing Aeron as he stood on his balcony casting. Afagddu imagined raising his hand and calling forth the derwydd yn tân with all his might and burning a hole through Aeron’s midriff while his back was turned. In his mind’s eye Afagddu watched Aeron stumble forward with the force of the blast and as he turned clutching his ruined chest, Aeron, his eyes full of pain and disbelief would with his dying breath whisper: ‘why?’