Snake-Women
A Swansea-girl had eyes that shone like diamonds, sometimes blue, sometimes grey, sometimes emerald. A young farmer from Ynys Môn was mesmerised by her, and she had agreed to marry him on the understanding that she was free to leave twice a year for a fortnight, and he was never to ask her where she had gone. He was happy with the arrangement, because he assumed she was visiting her family and he had no wish to leave Ynys Môn for Swansea.
All was well, until his mother became curious, as mothers often do. She suspected her son was being cuckolded, so she persuaded him to follow his wife. When the girl set off for Swansea, the farmer followed her. She walked through the woods and along the river, never looking behind her, until she stopped by a dark pool. He hid behind an elder tree and watched. She removed the girdle from her waist, threw it onto the grass, stood motionless, and slowly vanished. He ran towards the pool, but all he saw was a huge emerald snake which hissed at him and slithered down a hole in the bank. He poked a stick into the hole and wiggled it about, but the snake had gone.
Two weeks later, Swansea-girl returned, and he asked her about the snake. She stood motionless and stared at him with those emerald eyes, and licked her lips with her tongue. For the first time, he doubted his wife.
Six months later, just before she was due to leave, he hid her girdle. She pleaded with him to return it, but he refused and told her it was for her own good. She hissed and spat, frothed at the mouth, her neck arched, and her tongue flicked. Thinking the girdle must be the cause of her fit, he threw it into the fire. She writhed and wriggled and a fever consumed her, and as the girdle incinerated, she turned to ashes. She became known as ‘the Snake-Woman of the South’.
There was a shoemaker in the Vale of Taff who had married a widow for her money. One night, a neighbour heard terrible noises followed by a scream, as if he had struck her. Yet in the morning there wasn’t a mark on her face. The neighbour asked if she was alright, and she nodded and covered her face with her black hair.
As time passed the shoemaker became pale and emaciated, as if all the blood had drained from his body. Served him right for beating his wife and stealing her money, everyone said. When he died, no one mourned. Until the doctor examined his body and claimed the cause of death was the poisoned bite of a venomous serpent. The neighbour spoke up and said it wasn’t a serpent; the shoemaker had been bitten by his own wife.
That evening, the Snake-Woman invited the doctor and the neighbour to celebrate her husband’s life. They raised a glass of sweet honey wine and swapped stories and sang hymns when, suddenly, she hissed and spat. Her neck curved and she became a snake from the shoulders up. She opened her mouth to reveal two venomous fangs. She tore at them and drank their blood, and as she bit one of them, the other fought her off, until their strength drained.
They were found the following morning, draped over gravestones in the churchyard, white as ghosts, blood drained from their bodies and barely alive. The shoemaker’s wife had vanished, but from that day a great serpent was seen in the churchyard, which no stone or stick could kill. It was known as ‘the old Snake-Woman’.
Frog Woman and Toad Man
Miss Sylvester from Presteigne had a frog’s head, face, eyes, mouth, legs and feet. She could not walk, so she hopped, and never went out other than to chapel. When her mother was pregnant, she had turned away a beggar-woman, who cursed her saying, ‘Get away with your young frogs’, and so it was that Miss Sylvester was born half-woman, half-amphibian.
On moonlit nights, a Frog Woman frequented the road between Cardiff and Llandaff. She croaked and hopped like a frog, and was said to have been from a well-off family who had given her to an old woman to raise. One night, she fell into the Taff and drowned, and her croaks and cries were heard at moonlit midnights for many years after.
A wood turner in Cemaes fell into a fever and complained that toads were eating his fingers and nose. No one saw any toads, but the man grew hysterical. A gwiddanes was sent for, but her herbs made him speak gibberish. A dyn hysbys left a charm, but the man gibbered even more. One night his brother was dabbing the sweat from the wood turner’s forehead when he heard a noise. He lifted up the bedsheets and there were the toads, nibbling the wood turner’s toes. They walked up his body and ate his fingers and then his nose. He brushed them away but there were too many of them. So he dragged his brother out of bed, carried him into the top branches of a tree and stripped off the bark. But the toads climbed the slippery tree, and gobbled the man up, fingers, nose and all. The Killer Toads of Cemaes left little more than a bag of bones.
Gerald of Wales told of a young man called Cecil Longlegs who, during an illness, was persecuted by toads. No matter how many toads his friends killed, there were always more to take their place. So they hid Cecil up a tree, but the toads climbed up and stripped him to the bone. The place is called Trellyffant, Toad Town.
Werewolves and Wolf-Girl
In the eighteenth century, gangs of robbers in the woods were called Wolfmen. They emerged only at night, prowled around in packs, raided lonely farmsteads, carried children away and conversed with each other by howling.
In 1790, after dusk on a full moon, a stagecoach travelling from Denbigh to Wrexham was attacked on Llandegla Moor and overturned by an enormous black beast which tore apart one of the horses. In the winter of 1791, the sheep and dogs at Rhys Williams’s farm on the moor were slaughtered by a black wolf-like beast that tried to batter down the farm door. To this day, there are tales of the Beast of Bont, a large black cat that walks in the shelter of the hedgerows, slaughters sheep and provides headlines for local newspapers.
A young man who lived in the Bear’s Wood near Wenvoe proposed to a girl from Cadoxton. A year later he dumped her to marry another. Unfortunately for the man, the girl’s aunt was the Witch of Wenvoe, and she was not pleased at the way her niece had been treated. The witch left a twisted girdle on his doorstep and when he stepped over it, he turned into a werewolf. He ran naked, hairy and howling around Cadoxton, terrifying his new fiancée and amusing his former sweetheart, until the witch threw a lamb’s skin over him and he turned back into a man. He married the girl, but he dribbled and slavered and treated her so badly that the witch turned him back into a werewolf. He was known as ‘the Wild Man of the Woods’ and there was much relief when a poacher shot him.
A wide-eyed girl with a violent temper lived on the borders of Radnorshire. She was married to a gentle young man who loved her well. He soothed her with poetry while they huddled in the warmth of the fireside, and soon her anger abated. But times were hard, there was no living in words, and their bellies rumbled with hunger. They took to foraging, but nettle soup and mint infusions did not satisfy her. She became hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, hunched of shoulder and shadows beneath her ribs. Too weak to be angry, she stared at her young man, chewed her black hair and told him she would provide food for them. Before he could reply, she melted out of the door and returned later with a side of meat. That evening they ate greedily.
Each night she brought meat, sometimes lamb and sometimes chicken, and once again she became wide-eyed and angry. He asked her where the meat came from, but she just wiped the grease from her mouth and took another bite. He explained that he was concerned she was stealing. She made him promise not to reveal what she was about to show him, and she took him by the hand and led him to a lonely spot in the woods. She stripped herself of her clothes, wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips twitched, her nose lengthened, fur grew through her skin, her fingers became clawed, she licked his face and ran into the woods. She returned with a dead lamb between her teeth, dropped it in his lap and brushed the blood from her teeth. She promised all would be well, providing he stayed with her to ensure she hurt no one.
One day, they were in the woods when wolf-girl came hurtling through the trees with a lamb dangling from her mouth, pursued by a farmer and his dogs. Her husband shouted, ‘Run, my wife!’ and the wolf vanished. Wolf-girl lay naked on the gr
ound, curled up like a foetus while the dogs circled her, sniffing the blood on her body. The farmer stared, not knowing where to look, then he raised his gun. The young man stood between the cowering wolf-girl and the farmer, and said he would take the bullet for his wife. The farmer lowered his gun and said that he would skin her alive if she ever stole his sheep again.
The young husband picked up his wife, wrapped her in his coat, and carried her home, took her to bed and kept her warm. He fed her on cat meat and roadkill, and drained his blood into a glass for her to drink. But she grew weaker and paler and thinner.
He took jobs, working day and night, and bought her sides of lamb and whole chickens. Soon his wife grew stronger, and he locked her in whenever he worked nights. He never wrote another word of poetry, but he never stopped loving his wolf-girl, nor she him. .
This story was told to Emma Thomas of Llantwit Major by ‘JR’, who requested anonymity out of fear for their family. Emma was born in 1853 in Llantwit Major, daughter of stonemason and antiquarian Illtyd Thomas. She married a French journalist named Louis Paslieu, left him when she discovered he was a bigamist, and raised her daughter Bronwen as a single mother. To earn a living, she worked as a fortune teller, Madame Paslieu, and as a writer under the pen-name Marie Trevelyan. ‘Marie’ wrote several books in the 1890s, containing rip-roaring Arthurian legends, stirring stories of the sea and a gentle Quaker romance. In 1909 she published a phantasmagoria of folk tales, collected by herself and her father, very different to folk tales featured in books written by scholars and clergymen. Emma’s stories are ‘chwedlau’.
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BLODEUWEDD, FLOWER AND OWL
Math fab Mathonwy, Lord of Gwynedd, held court at Caer Dathyl in Arfon, where he ruled the North with his nephews, Gilfaethwy and Gwydion. When he wasn’t engaged in war with Dyfed in the South, Math had a guilty secret. He took pleasure in sitting in his bedchamber with his feet resting in the lap of a virgin, Goewin ferch Pebin.
Now, Gilfaethwy was infatuated with Goewin. The colour had drained from his cheeks, he had wasted away to skin and bone, and he was scared the wind would whisper his secret to Math. Gwydion knew of his brother’s pain, so he decided to help. He decided to conjure a war between Gwynedd and Dyfed, so Math would be forced to take up arms and remove his feet from Goewin’s lap.
Gwydion told Math that Pryderi fab Pwyll, Lord of Dyfed, had been given a gift of enchanted pigs by Arawn, Lord of the Otherworld. Math said he wanted a gift, too, so Gwydion offered to find some enchanted pigs.
So it was that Gwydion, Gilfaethwy and ten men disguised themselves as bards, poets and storytellers and came to Pryderi’s court at Rhuddlan Teifi in Dyfed. They were invited in, and that evening Gwydion entranced Pryderi with his words, for Gwydion was the best storyteller in the world. Then he took twelve toadstools and conjured twelve horses and twelve black hounds with white chests, and he gave their iron collars the appearance of gold. He offered them to Pryderi, who was dazzled by the gold and gave Gwydion his enchanted pigs in exchange. Gwydion and Gilfaethwy fled swiftly towards Gwynedd, knowing Pryderi would awaken from his enchantment and give chase. They stopped that night at a place that became known as Mochdref, Pigtown.
When Pryderi awoke and found his precious pigs had been stolen, he called for armour, gathered an army and marched on Gwynedd. On hearing the battle cry, Math armed his warriors, removed his foot from Goewin’s lap and marched to meet Pryderi.
Gwydion and Gilfaethwy slipped back to Caer Dathyl, and while Gwydion distracted the maidservants, Gilfaethwy crept into Math’s bedroom, and took Goewin against her will. At dawn the two brothers joined Math and his warriors in Arfon. The men of Gwynedd chased the men of Dyfed to Nantcyll, and there was a terrible slaughter. The men of Dyfed retreated again to Y Felinryhd, where Pryderi sent a message to Math saying the battle should be between him and Gwydion alone. The two men were armed and fought, and Gwydion enchanted Pryderi and slew him. He was buried in Maentwrog above Y Felinrhyd, while the men of Dyfed chanted lamentations and the men of Gwynedd marched home with songs on their lips.
When Math returned to Caer Dathyl, he ordered his bedchamber be made ready to rest his feet in his virgin’s lap. Goewin spoke, ‘Lord, you will have to find another to take my place.’ Math invited her to explain. ‘I am no longer a virgin. I was raped, Lord, and I was not silent. Your court heard. Your nephew Gwydion distracted my maids while Gilfaethwy raped me. And in your own bed.’ Math swore he would punish his nephews, and offered to marry Goewin himself and give her authority over his kingdom.
Gwydion and Gilfaethwy heard of Math’s fury and fled the court in fear, sleeping here and there in barns and trees. Math hunted them down, and struck them with his enchanted stick. He turned Gilfaethwy into a stag, and Gwydion into a hind, and ordered them to live together for a year and a day, with the same desires as wild beasts, and to make passionate love with each other.
In a year and a day, the stag and hind appeared before Math, looking rather sheepish, with a sturdy fawn trailing behind them. Math turned the fawn into a boy and gave him to Goewin, who named him Hyddwn. He took his enchanted stick and turned Gilfaethwy into a wild boar and Gwydion into a sow, and told them to go and make love like wild beasts. In a year and a day they appeared before Math with a sturdy piglet, which he turned into a boy named Hychdwn. Math turned Gilfaethwy into a wolf and Gwydion into a she-wolf, and in a year and a day they appeared with a sturdy cub, who Math turned into a boy named Bleiddwn.
After three years Math had amused himself enough. He turned the wolves into brothers again, told them their punishment was over and their embarrassment complete. He prepared a bath to wash away their hair, and invited them to recommend a new virgin with a comfortable lap on which to rest his feet. Gwydion quickly suggested his own sister, Arianrhod. She was sent for and Math inquired if she was a virgin. She said, ‘As far as I remember, my Lord.’ So Math invited her to step over his enchanted stick. As she did, she dropped a sturdy yellow-haired baby boy. Arianrhod fled, and as she ran through the door she dropped another baby, little more than a runt. Gwydion picked up the runt, wrapped him in a silk cover and hid him in the chest at the foot of his bed.
Math looked at the sturdy yellow-haired boy and baptised him. As the water touched him, the boy leapt into the sea and swam like a fish. Math named him Dylan ail Ton, Son of the Wave.
Gwydion lifted the runt from his chest and gave him to a wet nurse. After one year he was as tall as a two year old, after two years he walked on his own, and at four there wasn’t an eight year old bigger than he. One day Gwydion and the boy walked along the beach to Arianrhod’s castle. She asked who this fine young boy was, and Gwydion explained he was her son. She asked his name, and Gwydion said he had no name, so she said she would name him. Gwydion said no, the boy’s father would name him, and he called Arianrhod a wicked woman, angry at losing her virginity.
Gwydion played a trick. He disguised himself and the boy as cobblers, conjured leather from seaweed and offered to make Arianrhod a pair of shoes. She came to his boat to have her feet measured, and as she stepped on board the boy threw a stone at a wren, striking it on the leg between tendon and bone. Arianrhod exclaimed, ‘Lleu Llaw Gyffes, that fair-haired boy has a skilful hand.’ The enchantment lifted, and Arianrhod saw the cobbler was her brother Gwydion, who told her that she had just named her son, Lleu Llaw Gyffes. She knew she had been tricked, and walked away, swearing Lleu would never throw another stone in anger or bear arms against another unless she armed him herself. And she called Gwydion an evil man, frustrated at being unable to love a woman.
One day, two poets from Glamorgan appeared at Caer Arianrhod. She invited them in and fed them and they repaid her kindness in stories. The older man was a fine storyteller, best in the world. They slept that night at the castle, and in the morning Arianrhod looked out of her window and saw a fleet of invading ships approaching and knew she was in great danger. The poets offered to help, so she gave them swords, and as she dressed th
e younger lad in armour the fleet of ships vanished, and there stood Gwydion and Lleu. She knew she had been tricked into breaking her vow that her son would never be armed. She called Gwydion an evil man, he called Arianrhod a wicked woman, and she cursed Lleu never to have a wife of flesh and blood.
Lleu grew into a handsome youth. He rode wild horses along the beach at Dinas Dinlle, and soon he was ready to take a wife. So Math and Gwydion took the flowers of the oak, the broom and the meadowsweet and they conjured a maiden, and named her Blodeuwedd, and gave her to Lleu as a wife.
As a wedding gift, Math built Lleu and his flower-bride a court at Mur Castell in the uplands of Ardudwy. One day, Blodeuwedd was at Mur Castell, when she heard the sound of a horn, and a tired stag ran past with a huntsman and dogs in pursuit. The huntsman was Gronw Pebr, Lord of Penllyn, and the moment Blodeuwedd saw him she was enchanted. She thought it would be impolite not to invite him in, and all that evening they talked and then passed the night together in Lleu’s bed. And the following night. And soon the lovers were plotting.
Lleu came home late, he spent the next day talking with Blodeuwedd, and that night they went to bed. She was silent and distant. He asked what was wrong, and she said she was worried he might die before her, leaving her all alone. Lleu was touched by her concern and reassured her he could not be killed by any blow other than from a spear that had been crafted during Mass each Sunday for one year, nor could he be killed within a house nor outside, nor on horseback nor on foot. The only way he could die was if he stood with one foot on the roof of a pig trough and the other on a billy goat’s back. And that was hardly likely to happen, now was it?
Welsh Folk Tales Page 20