by Holly Taylor
“How can Modron be found?” the boy continued. “How can Spring begin?”
“Behold,” Anieron said solemnly, “Taran, King of the Winds, is searching for Modron, his beloved. He sends the winds to look the world over. And, at last, Modron is found. She sleeps in the sacred grove and cannot awake. The winds bring this news to Taran, and he flies to her. See how the winds rustle the trees of the grove, and the leaves speak with the wind.” Anieron shook his branch of bells. “See how the sounds of the air have awakened Modron.” Strangely, just at that moment, a slight breeze began. It gently shook the birch trees that began to sway slightly. The rustling of the trees sounded a mournful sigh.
Gwydion felt a faint prickling on the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it. Something was terribly wrong. That breeze . . .
He gazed searchingly at Anieron, but the old man’s face was bland as he tossed the seeds from the bowl onto the ground, then poured wine over the seeds. “The Earth has awakened and spring has come! Blessed be to Taran, King of the Winds.”
“Blessed be to Taran!” the crowd shouted. The breeze blew harder; turning into a steady wind that tossed the branches wildly. The birch fire flickered, dancing on the wind. Gwydion looked around but he saw no concern on anyone else’s face.
“Strange about the wind, don’t you think?” he murmured to Cariadas.
She looked at him blankly. “What wind?”
Gwydion’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was seeing something that no one else was seeing. Then he looked again at Anieron’s face, and he knew that the Master Bard was seeing it also.
Anieron began the Alban Awyr song, and the crowd joined in gleefully.
Spring returns, the air rings with the songs of the birds.
The blameless nightingale, the pure-toned thrush,
The soaring wood lark, the swift blackbird.
The birds sing a golden course of fame and glory
In the countless woodland halls. Spring returns!
After the song was over, the Bards began to dance around the fire. Some began to tell the first stories in the great storytelling contest that would go on all night. Gwydion looked around for Anieron and saw him disappearing into the trees. Swiftly, Gwydion took off after him. Coming out of the grove he saw Anieron standing alone, looking to the northwest, toward Gwynedd.
The wind began to blow even harder, whipping Gwydion’s robe and flattening the long grass in wild patterns. Gwydion grabbed Anieron’s arm. “The wind—”
“Taran’s Wind,” Anieron said dreamily, not taking his eyes off the northwest.
“What’s happening?” Gwydion asked frantically.
“Can’t you feel it? There’s a storm over Gwynedd. Taran of the Winds himself rides the sky tonight.”
ALONE IN THE tiny cottage, Myrrdin paced restlessly. The fierce wind shook the house. The storm had seemed to come up out of nowhere. One moment Myrrdin had been waiting for Arthur’s return so they could celebrate Alban Awyr together. Then the next, the storm had begun. There was no rain, no lightning, and no clouds, only the wind—shrieking, moaning, and wildly clawing at the earth.
Arthur really should have been back by now with the sheep. Myrrdin went to the back door thinking, for the hundredth time, that he had heard Arthur returning. He looked out and saw that the sheep had indeed come back. They bawled anxiously, huddled next to the closed byre door. With a sigh of relief Myrrdin slipped out the back door, struggling against the wind to shut it firmly behind him. The night sky was clear, and the waxing moon had risen, spilling its silvery beams over the harsh mountainside. Yes, the sky was clear. No storm clouds, but the wind blew more fiercely than ever.
He struggled against it to open the byre gate and the sheep hurried inside. But Arthur was not there. More worried than ever, Myrrdin counted the sheep as they crowded into the tiny stable. “Seven, eight, nine,” he counted to himself. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.” Where in the world was Arthur? “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six.” Twenty-six. But he and Arthur owned twenty-seven sheep. One sheep missing. Myrrdin guessed what had happened. One ewe had wandered off, and Arthur had gone looking for her. And he had not found her, or he would have returned with the flock himself.
Cursing, Myrrdin decided to Wind-Ride. He was desperately worried now. To be caught up in those mountains during a windstorm at night was dangerous indeed. The heavy wind was strong enough to tumble even a grown man off his feet and over a cliff. And Arthur was not a grown man—he was just a boy.
Myrrdin took a deep breath and tried to calm his wildly beating heart. As his pulse began to slow, he closed his eyes and his inner essence departed his body and flew from the byre up into the night sky, going higher and higher up the mountain in a desperate search for the missing boy.
ARTHUR SHIFTED HIS grip on the ewe as he struggled to bring her down the mountain. The wind whipped at his cloak and tugged at the blue scarf his mother had made for him. Hastily he wrapped the scarf closer around his neck with his free hand. It would never do to lose it. He thought of that scarf as his talisman, this gift from the mother he could barely remember.
He sighed, but merely in exasperation, for he was too young to think he could be in mortal danger. The wind tugged even harder at him. He had to get down the mountain to Myrrdin as soon as possible. He knew that Myrrdin would be worried sick by now, riddled with anxiety. A fierce gust almost pushed him off his feet and he stumbled. The terrified ewe struggled and Arthur almost lost his grip on her.
He looked up anxiously at the sky. Strange that the night was clear during a windstorm such as this. He struggled on down the mountain as best he could when a particularly strong gale blew him off his feet. He lost hold of the ewe and helplessly rolled toward the edge of the cliff. He reached out to grab something, anything to hold him, but his desperate grasping fingers encountered nothing but wind.
As he rolled toward the edge he realized that he was tumbling toward his death. A chaotic thought flashed through his horrified mind—his Uncle Gwydion was sure to be annoyed that a useful tool had been destroyed. Then the edge of the cliff loomed up to meet his terrified eyes as the wind took him for its own.
MYRRDIN’S SPIRIT SCOURED the mountains anxiously. In this form he could not be buffeted by the wind, not while his physical body remained safe in the byre. But he could see no sign of Arthur. The meadow grasses flattened and straightened in wild patterns. The wind whipped around the rocks, moaning in agony like a demented thing.
Suddenly, Myrrdin saw something at the edge of his vision. A scarf was tangled in a low, scruffy bush at the edge of a precipice. It fluttered mournfully in the gleeful wind. In horror, Myrrdin’s spirit recoiled, rushed down the mountain, and slammed itself back into his waiting body.
Myrrdin opened his eyes and took off out of the byre at a dead run.
ARTHUR HUNG HELPLESSLY in mid-air, anchored to the Earth only by his desperate one-handed grip on a low, scruffy thorn bush. His blue scarf tangled in the bush at the edge of the cliff, fluttered madly. His body twisted in the merciless wind. The wind keened in his cringing ears with triumph. It snarled, it snapped, it tugged at his weakening grip. He closed his eyes and refused to look down. He already knew that the mangled body of the ewe lay far, far below. He sobbed in terror and knew that he couldn’t hold on much longer. His grip was slipping. His body was chill and frozen by the harsh wind.
He was doing to die. He knew it. He couldn’t hold on.
Just then, he looked up at his hand that was slowly slipping away from the bush.
And a gnarled old hand came out of nowhere and grasped his.
“Myrrdin,” Arthur gasped.
Slowly, ever so slowly Myrrdin pulled Arthur back up to the cliff edge. The wind howled more fiercely than ever cheated of its prey. At last Arthur lay on the ground, anchored by Myrrdin’s steady hands. As Arthur struggled to his feet he grasped the scarf still tangled in the bush and yanked it free.
The two made their way
down the mountain, bracing each other against the now weakening wind. For the wind, knowing it had lost its prize was giving up and slinking away, to wait, perhaps, in some dark place for the chance to try again, one day.
Chapter Eleven
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn and Arberth, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 494
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
Gwydion stayed for some weeks in Gwytheryn. He spent a few more days in Neuadd Gorsedd, then backtracked to Y Ty Dewin to spend the rest of the time with Cariadas. As a matter of form he told the Ardewin, his uncle Cynan that he was looking for Rhiannon. But he had not expected Cynan to be of any help, so he was not disappointed when that was indeed the case.
He had finally left Y Ty Dewin two days ago and now he rode easily through the tall grasses that covered the deserted plain where Cadair Idris stood. Cold and empty, the mountain waited silently for the High King to return.
Gwydion halted his horse at the bottom of the eight stone stairs that led up to the doors. Once bright and shining, the stairs were now dull and dirty. Rockrose had twined this way and that through cracks in the broken steps, the red flowers like spots of blood scattered carelessly on an abandoned carcass.
Slowly he mounted the stairs, the breeze sobbing in his ears, his eyes on the huge iron, jewel-encrusted Doors that barred the way into the mountain. At his approach a humming began, building in intensity as the jewels on the Doors glowed increasingly brighter. The voice of the Guardian of the Doors blended with the mournful breeze and echoed off the shuttered mountain. “Who comes to Drwys Idris?” the disembodied voice asked. “Who demands entry to Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King of Kymru?”
“It is I, Gwydion ap Awst. But I do not demand entry.”
“The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the King. Without the Treasures you may not enter here.”
Silence settled over the mountain like a pall broken only by the moaning of the wind. Gwydion waited patiently. At last she asked, “Why have you come, Gwydion?”
“I was near the mountain and had an urge to visit on my way to Arberth.”
“And what is in Arberth?”
“Clues, I hope, to the whereabouts of Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. I must find her, as she holds the key to the location of Caladfwlch.”
“Ah,” said Bloudewedd. “So it is time to find the sword.”
“Do you know anything of it?” he asked hopefully.
“I do not,” Bloudewedd replied shortly. “Bran recovered the sword from Lleu on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. And it has not been seen since.”
“All I can hope, then, is that Rhiannon’s clue will be sufficient.”
“But it will not be,” Bloudewedd said crisply.
“What?” he sputtered. “What do you mean?”
“Bran had left me a message for you, when he infused my spirit into these Doors.”
“A message?” Gwydion repeated, astonished. “And it is?”
“That if you wish to find the sword, you must seek guidance from those who once wore it.”
“From the High Kings themselves? But they are . . .” He trailed off, turning to look at the silent stones of Galor Carreg, the burial mounds of the High King’s of Kymru. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I see.”
“Yes,” said Bloudewedd quietly. “I believe that you do.”
THE SUN SLOWLY sank past the horizon and the moon rose, full and glorious. From somewhere across the plain a wolf howled mournfully.
Gwydion sat on the ground in front of the burial chamber itself, surrounded by the silent and dark massive standing stones that guarded the dead. The entrance to the chamber was a pit of darkness, only the fringes of the opening lit by the silvery moon.
Gwydion had dug a shallow pit before the entrance in the shape of a figure eight, the symbol for infinity, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. He had snapped off portions of the yew and hazel trees that were planted on either side of the entrance and filled the shallow pit with the wood. The yew was Annwyn’s tree and the hazel belonged to Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, Annwyn’s mate. These two ruled Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, the place where souls journeyed at their physical death to await rebirth.
It would be Annwyn and Aertan that would allow the souls of the dead High Kings to return for a brief time tonight. If, of course, he could persuade them.
He had already laid out before him a on clean cloth a piece of bread, a small, wooden cup full of wine, a tiny mound of salt, and a piece of honeycomb he had been lucky enough to get from a nearby hive earlier in the afternoon.
He stood now; knowing the time had come. He raised his hands and called Druid’s Fire. Fire instantly filled the shallow pit, licking at the pieces of yew and hazel.
“I, Gwydion ap Awst, the Twelfth Dreamer of Kymru, call on Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and on Aertan, Weaver of Fate. I beg a boon.”
He fell silent, listening. A very slight breeze stirred the grasses surrounding the stones.
“I ask that the souls of the High King’s of Kymru—Idris, Macsen, and Lleu Silver-Hand be released from the Summer Land and allowed to come to me tonight. They have a message for me that I must hear for the good of Kymru.”
Again, Gwydion paused. A cold wind whipped around him, seeming to come from the ground itself. The yew and hazel trees nodded slightly in the sudden breeze.
“I invite the dead to feast with me. I give them grain, for the element of fire.” He picked up the piece of bread and flung it into his Druid’s Fire. The fire flared orange. “I give you wine, for the element of water.” He flung the contents of the tiny cup onto the fire and it flickered with a blue sheen. “I give you salt, for the element of earth.” He flung the salt into the flames, and it flickered with a green cast. “And I give you honeycomb, for the element of air.” He cast the piece of honeycomb into the fire, and it glowed whitely.
Gwydion now stood quietly before the darkened entrance and waited. He had done everything he could do. He only hoped that it was enough.
The darkness that pooled to the tomb’s entrance stirred. A figure stepped forth, glowing slightly in the night, followed by two others. The three shadowy ghosts came to a halt before Gwydion on the other side of the fire pit.
He recognized each one from his dreams. Dark-haired and silver-eyed Idris, the first High King. Bluff honey-blond Macsen, the second High King. And finally, golden Lleu with his hand of silver, the last High King of Kymru.
“You have called us,” Idris spoke in a hollow voice, “and we have come.”
“We have come as Bran had known we would,” Macsen sighed.
“We have come to give you that which will help you find what you seek,” Lleu said.
“Listen well, Dreamer, for this is what you want,” Idris said. “It is called the Battle of the Trees, and it was written by Taliesin for you.”
The three of them recited as one:
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Face the Guardians.
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Do battle.
The alder tree, loyal and patient,
Formed the van.
The aspen-wood, quickly moving,
Was valiant against the enemy.
The hawthorn, with pain at its hand,
Fought on the flanks.
Hazel-tree did not go aside a foot
It would fight with the center.
And when it was over
The trees covered the beloved dead,
And transformed the Y Dawnus,
From their faded state,
Until the two were one,
In strength and purpose,
And raised up that which they had sought.
On winter’s first day,
The one who is loved shall die.
And tears will overwhelm
The lonely heart.
Gwydion bowed formally. “I thank you, High Kings, for your message. May I ask a few qu
estions of you?”
Idris nodded. “Though we may not be able to answer fully, we will tell you what we can.”
“The Captains of the Rulers of the four kingdoms are the ones referred to in this poem. For one of their titles is that of the tree for that kingdom. Thus the alder tree is for Cai, the Captain of Gwynedd. And the aspen is for Angharad, the Captain of Ederynion. The hawthorn is for Trystan, the Captain of Rheged, and the hazel is for Achren, the Captain of Prydyn.”
“That is so, Dreamer,” Macsen said. “These are some of those who are required to join you in the search for the sword.”
“And the Y Dawnus spoken of? Who besides myself must accompany us?”
“The one you seek.”
“Rhiannon?” Gwydion asked. “She must go with us?”
Lleu nodded. “She holds another piece of the puzzle, as you have dreamed. But she has a larger part to play.”
Gwydion nodded his head, although everything within him protested this.
“You shall be joined by one other, who we cannot name,” Idris went on. “He shall come to you, although he will not know why.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Gwydion asked thoughtfully. “Who is the one who shall die?”
“We cannot say,” Lleu replied softly. “But be assured that the soul of that one shall dwell among the dead in the Summer Land in joy and peace.”
“Do not fail, Dreamer, in this quest,” Idris said sternly. “For without the sword a High King cannot forge the powers of the Y Dawnus into a weapon against the enemy. And this is a weapon that the Kymri must have.”
“For the enemy is coming,” Macsen said.
“Coming for you all,” Lleu said.
Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
TWO DAYS LATER, as he was riding by Coed Aderyn, his horse began to slow. “What are you doing?” Gwydion asked. Elise tossed his head and snorted.
Oh, yes, they were nearing a wood. “Thank you,” Gwydion said politely. He had mentioned to Elise that he wanted to go slowly through any wood for he thought it likely Rhiannon would be hiding in one. Forests were, after all, the best hiding places.