by Karen Dales
The cries of the baby grew, his face curled up in a furious fight to convince his father to let him live. Geraint’s heart broke as tears flowed freely down his face as the futility of the situation encompassed him. His mother was right. No one would help this babe live.
Ignoring her husband, Enid turned and went back to bed, curling into the same foetal position he had found her in. This allowed his two daughters permission to run to him, crying. "Dada, where are you taking the baby?" cried his eldest.
Geraint wiped the tears escaping from his eyes. "I am taking your baby brother to a place where people can care for him until your mother is better," he lied.
"But you said he was going to die."
"No, the baby isn't going to die.” He could not believe how hard this was, hating his wife for making him do this. “He's going to go to the land of everlasting life, to Tir na n-Og."
"Glenys not play with pink-eyes no more?" asked the youngest, her thumb in her mouth.
"No. Not for a while.” Geraint’s mother said, coming to his rescue. “Now off to bed, the both of you."
The girls hesitantly turned away, moving slowly back to their bed. Once under the covers, their eyes closed. Geraint handed his son to his mother to hold while he put his winter layers back on. "You might as well stay the night,” he said, taking his son back in a shaky embrace. "You can sleep with my wife. When I come back I'll go with the girls." The old woman nodded. He turned to look at his wife and through gritted teeth he whispered, "I'll never forgive you for this."
Geraint opened the door, letting a blast of cold air in. The hearth fire flickered. He looked back at the deceptive warmth of his home and walked into the cold night, his son in his arms, allowing the door to close with a flutter.
The baby nestled against the warmth of his father’s breast, quickly settled into a quiet slumber. The snow had stopped falling, allowing the thick clouds to move further east to reveal a star filled black curtain. Only the crescent light of the moon guided the farmer’s journey as he headed towards the dark of the forest beyond.
The air had chilled with the clearing of the sky. Each exhalation clung to the farmer’s moustache, turning the dark hairs as white as his sleeping son. His tears froze on his cheeks as they left his water filled eyes. He tried to think of who would take his son and ruled out any of the other villagers. They knew the reason why his wife did not want the child. Her own father had approved of the idea of letting his grandson drown, but Geraint had put his foot down. If there was no one to care for his child then letting the child die quickly was the most merciful thing to do.
The skeletal arms of the trees embraced him, blocking out the silver light. Geraint’s path became unclear so he slowed his pace. The sound of crackling branches replaced the crunching of the snow. He walked faster, fear creeping up his spine, sending the short hairs on the back of his neck to rise. A thousand eyes peered at him through the dark blotches between tree and snow mound, or was it just a trick of the moonlight? It was ludicrous coming out at such a late hour, an invitation for the whim of the Tylwyth Teg to make a plaything out of him. A little bit farther and he would place his son in the care of the elements and return, very quickly, back to his dishevelled home.
Closer to the heart of the forest Geraint stopped his travels, looking around for an appropriate place to put his doomed child. No sound, except his breathing and the gurgles from the child, could be heard. He noticed a dip in a snow mound and gently placed his son in it. As he turned to walk away the babe woke and began to cry. Its piercing screams crying out to be held and loved cut the still silence. Geraint increased his pace out of the forest; fresh tears flowing freely down his cheeks.
The haggard old woman grumbled as she walked through the forest, quickly waddling with her heavy skirts lifted in her hands to allow easy passage over the tangled brush above the snow. "That is the last time I get dragged out in the middle of such a horridly cold night for a simple case of the sniffles," she muttered under her laboured breath. "Phagh! Maybe I'll give them a diuretic rather than an expectorant. Now wouldn't that be a sight." Laughter in the form of successive wheezes wracked her body. Maybe I'll just give myself that expectorant.
A sound from within the forest halted Llawela in her tracks. Frightened, she crouched down, cocking her head to the side searching the darkness for the source of the strange sound. Can't be a cat. She listened to the wailing. Curiosity piqued, Llawela stood, focused on the direction of the sound, and moved off into the forest, following the wails.
She may be old but her hearing was still as sharp as when she was a girl. The forest wrapped its dark wooden cloak around her. Fearless of the woods she knew so well the old woman moved quickly yet cautiously, following the increasing sound. Before long she came upon the source of the cries. It was a baby! Who in their right mind would put out a child on a night like tonight? She thought for a moment. A crimbil!
Such children should not be touched but something about this one called out to her heart and after a bit of internal personal debate with the rights and wrongs of such an action she picked up the crying bundle, cradling it in her arms to pull back the cloth that covered its face. "Well, hello there. What are you doing out here all by your lonesome?" The baby ceased its crying and looked up at the shadowed face of the stranger.
Glancing around to see if the ones who left the child were near, Llawela turned her gaze back to the babe. A shiver ran up her spine, letting her know that creatures not of this world watched her. "Are you a child of the fairy folk, my crimbil?" She noticed wisps of white hair on the babe’s head as broken moonlight shone down. Llawela clicked her tongue in her cheek. "I must assume that you are."
Contemplating her next decision, she asked the babe, "Are you for me to care for?" The baby gurgled with pleasure as she tickled his chin. Sighing, she silently cursed the Fay for knowing her soft heart. "I guess you are." Llawela smiled and cuddled the infant closer, before turning to head back to her hut by the forest.
Chapter I
The boy ran joyfully though the woods keeping close to the trees and the deep shadows they created. It was wonderful to finally be free of the stuffy hut that he shared with his Auntie. He did not understand why he was supposed to stay indoors on bright sunny days. Even on grey dreary days he was only allowed to go out for a little while staying close to home. But today, like every ninth day, Auntie let him go out to play in the thick forest that backed onto their small piece of land, always with a warning to stay out of the sun and to keep the eyes of strangers from him. He could only go in specific directions that Auntie gave him, telling him to keep to himself.
The boy did not understand Auntie’s fears, but she made them clear enough that if he was ever seen, or worse – caught, the repercussions on her and the boy would be severe. So he stuck to the trails left by the deer and other forest animals.
Auntie had given him a wedge of dark yellow cheese and a couple of slices of bread telling him not to come back until sundown. The boy knew that today would be the day that people from the nearby villages would come to buy Auntie’s simples and cures, to hear about their futures and be given the spells necessary to bring their desires into their lives.
When he was younger and Auntie did not trust him as much as she did now, the boy would sit silently behind the drape that hid his pallet, for the whole day. There was only one day in which he peaked through the drape to see a woman with a babe to her breast. The boy was so fascinated, having never seen another person, let alone a baby, that he did not realize that the mother had felt his eyes upon her and turned to see a pair of blood red ones staring back at her. The woman had screamed and ran out of the hut. The whipping he received from Auntie that night was severe, leaving him weeping and heart sore. He knew he had jeopardized their life together though he did not know why.
Since then he followed Auntie’s rules, but today, with the spring sun warm on his bare shoulders and the sounds of the forest as his friend, the boy was able to shake off the dema
nds that Auntie made to keep him hidden from the world. Today he was part of the world and he revelled in it.
Not much farther along the path the boy came upon his favourite spot – a glade with a stream burbling through. He sighed and smiled at the sight of the sun dancing off the water as it gurgled over the pebbles and rocks. The stream was too wide to jump over and when he went fishing the stream would be as high as his thighs.
Today he would bring back the biggest fish he could catch and Auntie would be so proud that they would feast on the fish, leaving nothing but bones for soup. The boy smiled at the thought, and checked to see the position of the sun through a lifted hand and watering eyes. It was still too early. He would have to wait until the sun was behind the trees to give him the shade he would need to take his time fishing.
Sitting down beneath the old oak tree that stood guardian over the glade, the boy closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rough bark, enjoying the smells of the green growing things and the white petals of the hawthorn that the slight breeze brought to him. A sense of contentment washed over him. This was his sacred place where not even Auntie could find him. Her fears were not welcomed here.
He did not understand her fears and why she kept him away from others. Auntie was his only friend; the only person he knew and he loved her dearly. He gladly learned what he could of healing and the positive magics that she let him participate in. He loved to hear her tell stories about the Goddess Don and Her children. His favourite were the stories of Gwyn ap Nudd.
Every night, before they would go to sleep he would implore Auntie to tell another story. Now he could almost recite the stories by heart, but he still loved to hear her old, shaky voice become musical as she recalled the stories she was taught when she was his age.
On the nights of the full moon, if Auntie allowed, he would join her outside to dance and sing. They would pour milk onto the thirsty earth and would leave special cakes made of oats and honey by the trees nearest to the forest. Maybe tonight they would be able to celebrate together if Auntie did not have more serious work to do. They had not been able to do so for several moons because of the cold sapping Auntie’s strength.
She had grown old of late, but then again she had always been old. The boy knew Auntie was not his mother. He knew the words; mother, father, brother and sister. The stories Auntie told made it clear that all the Gods and Goddesses were related, but the boy did not have any relations. He only had Auntie and though that should have been enough, it was not. He wanted more but it was denied to him for reasons Auntie would not explain. She would always tell him that he was too young yet to understand and that when he was older she would tell him. Until then the boy sat in the darkness of his origins and it did not comfort him.
He frowned and opened his eyes to the bright sunlight filtering through the heavy leaves and quickly closed them, letting the tears wash away the sting. It still was not time. Checking to see that he still sat in the shade of the oak, the boy took out the wedge of cheese and bread from his brown leather pouch that was coated with grease to protect it from water. It was still some time before midday but he was hungry so he portioned out a bit of the bread and ripped off a chunk before putting the rest away.
Auntie was complaining of late that he was eating her out of house and home. She expected it; she would say when she noticed that he could not fit into his clothes. Always clucking like a hen she tried in vain to make his kilt and shirt fit him properly. The kilt was easy to let out, even though it grew shorter and shorter until it hung just above his knees. The shirt was beyond adjustment and since it was now warm enough, it was in the rag bin to be used for other things.
The bread, being freshly baked, was soft and a perfect accompaniment for the sharp cheese that had been given to Auntie as a gift from a villager whom Auntie helped survive a nasty sickness. The boy had been left alone for a few days. He had to take care not to be seen when others came by on Auntie’s regular ninth day and she was not home. That day he had to stay as quiet as a mouse as people from all over would knock on her door post expecting her to be home. Every time the sound of strangers came to the door the boy caught his breath and stopped what he was doing in fear of being found. Eventually the visitor would leave and he would breathe a sigh of relief until the next person came by.
Auntie’s fears had become his own without knowing why.
Popping the last bit of crust into his mouth, the boy checked the position of the sun and the shadows once more and saw that he could start fishing. A smile lit up his face. Maybe a big salmon would jump into his hands. Now that would be wonderful!
The boy carefully unwrapped his footwear consisting of no more than old rags and strips of leather tied to his feet and left them next to his little leather bag that held the cheese and bread. Feet were easier to dry than wool and leather. He wiggled his toes in the air and stood up, enjoying the cool green. Once more taking note of the sun’s position and the shadows he walked to the stream and tested the water.
He gasped at the cold shock. Maybe fishing was not the best idea but he did not want to disappoint Auntie. Swallowing his courage he stepped into the freezing water and waited a bit before carefully walking in deeper. Each step brought a new wave of chills as the ice water met with pale flesh. By the time he reached the middle of the stream he could not feel his toes and his teeth began to chatter as he tried to catch his breath. The tug of the fast flowing water threatened to pull the boy off balance but he adjusted his stance. If only he could stop shivering he would be able to put his arms into the water to tickle the fish. Gooseflesh covered him and he knew had to master this. Taking a deep breath he unwrapped his arms from his sides and stuck them into the water when he sighted a salmon meandering his way.
The shock of the water caught his breath once again and he gritted his teeth as he allowed his fingers to wiggle in the hopes of enticing the fish. His breath came in gasps. He was not adjusting to the near frozen water and he desperately hoped that the fish would come closer. Staring hard at it, he tried to will the fish to him. It inched ever so slightly towards him as it fought the current. Maybe it would swim between his legs and then it would be easy. A tickle of a scaly body and a toss to land it on the green grass would end his frozen misery. The fish did not pay heed. It began to veer to the left, away from the tasty worms his fingers tried to be. The boy swore under his breath. He did not know how much longer he would be able to stay in the water. His legs had started to lose feeling.
Come here fish! He tried to block out the discomfort of his body and focus all his attention on getting that salmon closer to him. With a flip of its tail the fish changed direction towards his fingers and the boy was able to relax in hopeful anticipation of the feel of the salmon’s scales on his fingers.
Time went by. His fingers lost their feeling and he did not know why the fish was playing with him. Salmon were known for their wisdom and if this was truly the case then what the boy had here was the smartest and wisest salmon in the entire world. The boy could only be patient as his body slowly lost feeling.
Warmth touched his shoulder and he looked up to see that the sun had moved, bringing him out of shadow. It felt good to have the heat of the sun on him, but he knew he had to move fast. The sky was clear of clouds and he could not stay exposed to the sun for long. The reflected light off the water created spots in his eyes, making it near impossible to see the fish. If the salmon did not come to him soon he would have to leave the stream and wait for the sun to go behind the trees again. The boy did not relish the thought of coming back into this frigid water.
Please, Don, he silently prayed.
He was losing feeling in his arms and his back was beginning to ache with having to bend over while the muscles fought to keep their heat. A feathery touch flicked across the fingers of his left hand. He could not see the fish, but was rewarded with the sensation letting him know that it was finally falling for his rouse. Slowly bringing his other hand closer to cup under the salmon he allow
ed it to gain a sense of ease before he lifted and tossed the fish in one fluid motion, sending a spray of water across his face.
Spluttering at the shock, the boy hesitated a moment before seeing where the fish landed. It squirmed and wriggled on the mound next to his lunch and footwear. He let out a whoop of glee as he ran on unresponsive legs out of the stream and up on the grass, a large rock in his hand. It took a moment for him to tackle the fish and hammer the rock into its head.
Cold water dripping from his milk white hair, he smiled in triumph. Making sure the fish was truly dead he got onto his hands and knees. He could not believe his eyes. It must be the biggest salmon he had ever caught. It must have been as long as his torso. Auntie would be so proud! Not only would this fish be a feast, but also there was probably more they could eat in one setting. Fish soup would also be on the menu. It had been so long since they had salmon.
A snap of a branch drew his attention to the dark of the woods to his left. The smile left his face to be replaced with a worried frown. Was there someone out there? He did not know. Maybe it was a bear coming to sample from the stream.
Another sound of breaking was followed by voices.
Panic struck the boy and his breath came in sharp pants. His heart pounded in his ears for him to flee. People were coming to his glade!
He had to hide. He must be quiet. Maybe the people would pass by, leaving him unnoticed, but where to hide?
Bushes of hawthorn flowered next to the spring on his side. It would have to do.
The sounds were coming closer. Dashing away, the boy left his possessions and the fish. He crawled carefully through the mayflowers so as not to feel the bite of their thorns. He managed to hide just in time before four people noisily burst onto his sacred place.