by J. M. Hofer
Bran added, “And many believe her choice to abandon her vows was the reason she and Arthfael were never blessed with a child.”
“Yes,” Gwion nodded. “Over the years Arthfael grew restless. He didn’t consider himself a true king without a sword befitting his station, and was most envious of that wielded by King Meilyr, then chieftain of the South—the noble Dyrnwyn which now hangs at your side, my lord.”
Oh, yes.“I loved this story when I was your age.” Bran glanced at Gwion. “I made my mother tell it over a thousand times, I’m sure. I’m eager to hear your version, though. Seems each clan tells it slightly differently.”
“Such is the way with stories,” Gwion smiled. “They take on a life of their own.”
“They do, indeed.” Bran nodded.
Gwion continued. “The Isle had never known weapons, and had neither forge nor blacksmiths. Arthfael thus began his search for Eircheard, the legendary blacksmith who had forged Dyrnwyn, as no other would do. He journeyed to your village with gifts, and asked King Meilyr if the blacksmith still lived. ‘I wish to commission a sword from him,’ he said, ‘and will gladly pay you a handsome amount of gold if you tell me where I can find him.’ King Meilyr agreed, but he did not want gold as payment. ‘Keep your gold,’ he said. ‘Instead, bring me a single flask filled with the water of the Sacred Pools.’ He was a wise man, for the water of the pools could cure any ailment.
“Arthfael knew it was blasphemy to barter with the sacred water, but he felt no harm could come from removing one flask. He delivered the flask to Meilyr, and, as agreed, Meilyr told him where to find Eircheard.”
This was another story Bran was familiar with. As a boy, his mother had reminded him of it every time they journeyed to the Crossroads for a celebration. She always brought offerings for the Great Mother, asking the Sisters to take them back to the Isle on her behalf and put them beside the Sacred Pools. She believed she owed her life to the water that was granted to her maternal ancestor.
“Here’s something you may not know, my friend.” Bran looked down at Gwion.
“Yes?”
“You surely know Meilyr used the water to heal his wife, but did you know that my mother descended from her line?”
Gwion looked up with a sheepish smile on his face. “I confess, I do know that. My mother knew who you were when you came to Lucia’s villa.”
“She did?” Bran thought back on his first encounter with Aveta. She revealed nothing at all.
“Yes. Well, at first she just suspected, but after a few days, she knew.”
“I see. Go on with the story.”
“Just a moment—I’m thirsty.” Gwion went to the river and cupped his hands for a drink. Ula must have thought he was trying to catch a fish, because she reached in and grabbed one.
Gwion laughed as she offered it up to him. “No, Ula. Just needed a drink.”
She shrugged her shoulders and tossed the fish back in the river.
“Now, where was I?”
“Arthfael. Sword.”
“Oh, yes. Arthfael went to Eircheard and commissioned his sword, but insisted that he return to the island with him to forge it, as he wished for the blade to be quenched and tempered with the water of the Sacred Pools. Eircheard agreed, eager to see the fabled Isle. Upon seeing the immense beauty of the woods in which Arthfael had built his forge, he chose to sleep under its roof and gather his own food, rather than live among the clan. The king allowed him to do as he wished.”
“Eircheard was a very wise and penitent man. He yielded himself to the will of the priestesses, promising he would never use the sacred water for any purpose they did not approve of, regardless of what Arthfael commanded.”
Wise man.
“The priestesses prayed about the arrival of the stranger to the Isle. They asked for guidance about what he’d been tasked to do. To their surprise, the message they received was to allow Eircheard to forge the sword as he’d been commissioned to do. Thus, with the blessing of the priestesses, Eircheard began his work. When the time came to temper and quench the blade, the priestesses freely offered him water from the Sacred Pools.”
Bran imagined the glory of forging such a weapon in such a place. He loved working metal. He was not as good as Einon or Aelhaearn at it, but he loved it, just the same. It was satisfying work.
“Eircheard forged the sword as an act of worship, inspired by the Isle and the purity that surrounded him in the grove. When it was finished, it gleamed silver-blue, illuminated from within as if liquid moonlight flowed within its blade. Before taking it to Arthfael, he presented it to the priestesses, bidding them bless and name it. They did as he asked, dedicating it to the Great Mother, and called it Caledgwyn.”
Caledgwyn. The name sent chills down Bran’s spine. It had the first time he had heard it, and every time since.
“Eircheard proudly presented Caledgwyn to Arthfael, who cried tears of joy upon seeing it. No sword forged before nor since was ever so beautiful in its perfection. Arthfael offered to pay him triple what was agreed upon, but Eircheard refused to take any payment at all. He said the privilege of living in such a sacred place was payment enough, and that the sword was a symbol of his love and gratitude. His only wish was for it to be ever-wielded in justice according to the Great Mother’s will. Arthfael so promised, and Eircheard never forged another sword again, knowing none would ever be as perfect as Caledgwyn.”
“For a time, the Isle rested peacefully in the lake. Arthfael stayed true to his word. Children grow to be men and women, however, and then have children of their own, and soon there were three generations living upon the Isle. The priestesses were listened to less and less. Arthfael and his clan had grown tired of their constant warnings and prophecies. The water of the Sacred Pools was then used for the needs of the people, and all of the game on the Isle was hunted down for food.”
The sun had come out from behind the clouds. Bran found it strange that the world became lighter just as the story was darkening.
“With her holy places defiled and her name forgotten, the Great Mother removed her veil of protection from around the Isle. It wasn’t long before invaders found it. From his great tower, Arthfael saw them coming across the water. With zeal, he hoisted Caledgwyn, eager to finally stain its blade in battle, and led an attack against the invaders.
“When the first drop of innocent blood was shed, as always happens when men hoist swords, it is said the Great Mother looked down and wept. They say she wept from the new moon to the full, her tears falling ceaselessly day and night, flooding the lake until it covered the Isle. Under the waters of the lake it remained, until every soul who had ever seen or lived upon it had died.”
Bran let out a long, slow breath. Ula must have thought something was wrong, because she came and took both their hands. Sweet girl.
“Eventually, the waters of the lake receded, revealing the Isle once again, but none who tried to reach it ever succeeded; it was protected again, more than ever. The Great Mother chose new priestesses to walk upon its soil, and led them to her shores. From that time on, never again have any of her priestesses taken husbands, nor raised their boys to the age of men upon its shores.”
“Nicely told.” Bran smiled after Gwion had finished.
“Thank you.”
“It’s a tragedy what happened to the Isle, but strong lessons are frequently learned in such a way.”
“Yes,” Gwion nodded. “My lord, these are not just stories for children. It has long been believed the legendary Caledgwyn lies deep in the heart of the Sacred Pools, waiting to be raised by a worthy warrior in a time of great need—I believe now is such a time.”
Bran inferred the boy’s meaning. He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m no legendary hero, Gwion. Merely a warrior intent on surviving and protecting his clan.”
“Heroes aren’t born, my lord. They’re made—made when ordinary men choose to do extraordinary things.” Gwion smiled.
Again, Bran was impressed by the c
hild’s wisdom. He put a reassuring arm around his shoulders. “You speak true, my young friend.”
They walked in silence awhile, enjoying the sunset, until Gwion spoke up again. “My lord, you’re journeying to surrender your sword and position as chieftain of your people. Your heart must grieve over this. This is an opportunity to be chosen by the Great Mother herself, and wield a sword forged in dedication to her—to defend not only your own family, but the Sisterhood and Crossroads as well. Neither have a champion to protect them.”
Gwion’s face grew grave. “Make no mistake, Cerridwen will eventually overtake both of the holy places and dominate them. I’ve seen it. Fortunately, the future is not a page written in ink. It’s always twisting in the mist, and we can adjust our sails to change it. It’s the Great Mother who speaks through me. She is challenging you to serve her.”
Bran felt humbled by Gwion’s words. “I’m honored she thinks me such a man, Gwion. You know my heart well. If the Great Mother considers me worthy, I can do nothing but submit myself to her and find out.”
Gwion smiled. “Good. I’ll send word to the Isle that we’re coming.”
Don’t know how he’ll manage to do that, but I don’t doubt he can.
“The boat is just a bit further downriver. We’ll soon come to it.”
Ula had been silent for the last mile. Bran touched her shoulder to let her know he had not forgotten about her. She looked up, smiled at him, and then walked ahead with renewed vigor in her stride.
The boat was right where Gwion had said it would be. Soon, they were pushing away from the dock.
“Who owns this boat?” Bran asked Gwion.
“A friend of the family, you could say. He repaired it for us and made a few extra oars. Good man.”
Bran took up the oars and Gwion took the rudder, directing them down the center of the river. Ula nestled herself in the bow, looking thrilled to be on the water. The current was strong.
“The river will take us to the lake,” Gwion announced. “We should be safe to travel without stopping until we reach it. From there, I can get us to the Isle. You’ll need to speak with Priestess Rowan. Hopefully, she’ll agree to my request on your behalf. Either way, I’ll see to it that you’re reunited with Gethen.”
And Lucia, Bran realized, gladdened. He thought of the day he had upset her by the lake and she had turned his dagger on him. He pictured her green eyes challenging him from beneath her wild red hair, whipped free by the strong wind that day. He chuckled. She had been so over-confident in her ability to protect herself that he had worried about her ever since—he could have taken that knife from her as easily as a toy from a child. She certainly did not lack a fighting spirit, but without the ability to match it, it would do nothing but stoke the fire in an attacker’s loins. Taming a wild woman was like breaking a wild stallion—it appealed to the conqueror in all men, and never did blood flow with more desire for conquest than in battle.
A great splash broke him from his thoughts. He whirled around to see Ula had jumped into the river. “What is it with that girl? Ula!” he yelled.
“She’s a selkie!” Gwion smiled. “She belongs in the water.”
“Islwyn mentioned she was from that clan. Tell me of it.”
Gwion laughed heartily. “They aren’t a clan. Not as we think of one, anyway. She’s a seal that can take the form of a woman.”
“What?” Bran gave Gwion a blank look.
Gwion restated what he had just said a bit more slowly, picking up the sealskin which lay in the bottom of the boat for emphasis. “She’s a seal, but can shed her skin and take the form of a human. You’ve never heard tales of such creatures?”
Bran remembered the seal he had fed by the seashore a few days ago, and how Ula had appeared shortly thereafter. “By the gods, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. There are many creatures in the world like Ula, but they reveal themselves very seldom, for obvious reasons.”
Bran nodded in vague understanding, watching Ula swim alongside the boat, feeling quite strange.
“Why doesn’t she put her skin back on? Surely she’d be warmer in that water.”
“I don’t know. She will when she wants to, I suppose.”
A fish came sailing out of the river and landed squarely in the boat, followed rapidly by two more.
“Seems she’s taken care of lunch.” Gwion grinned.
Ula’s hands appeared alongside the boat and she swung herself back into it. Bran stared at her in wonder while she tore into her meal. He did not think he would ever get used to her sinking her teeth into a raw fish, but at least now, he knew why. She pulled her skin around herself after finishing her meal and rested her head in Bran’s lap to sleep.
“She trusts you, Bran. Consider it an honor. I know of no men but you, me, and Islwyn who have been so blessed. There are many men who would steal her skin and keep her for themselves.”
“What do you mean, steal her skin?” Bran knit his brows.
“She can’t return to her true form without her skin. Men have been known to capture selkie by stealing their skins. They’re enchanting, and make wonderful wives and mothers, but are never truly happy out of the sea.”
“Well, she seems happy now,” Bran noted. “She can stay as long as she likes.” He pulled some bread from his pocket and sunk his teeth happily into it. “Oh!” he mumbled with a full mouth, “The joy of bread! I cannot tell you how much I have missed it!”
“I can imagine.” Gwion smiled.
“Tell me more about this man claiming to be Lucia’s husband.” He wanted to be certain he was out of the picture. “You said something happened to him.”
“I suspect Cerridwen had something to do with it.”
“But why him? What does a priestess of the Isle want with a Roman?”
“What, indeed. We suspect she knows of his marriage to Lucia, and that she discovered Lucia has the Sight. It’s the most coveted blessing among the women of the Isle. She may mean to reach out to her, and offer to train her. Knowing Lord Camulos was her husband, she likely turned him to her purpose first, and then sent him to your village to fetch her. With Lucia as her ally, and a centurion like Camulos to help lead an army and provide military counsel, she could strengthen her position.”
Knowing Cerridwen was purposefully seeking Lucia out made Bran want to have her by his side more than ever, where he could keep an eye on her. “Perhaps this is dense of me, but it seems the Isle is not necessarily a safe place for her. If Cerridwen wants to return to it, can she be kept from its shores?”
“I don’t believe that Cerridwen would go so far as to defile the Isle with bloodshed, or bring men to its shores. If she were to return, she would so do alone, and in peace. The Isle is the holiest of places to the Sisterhood, and home to the Great Mother. Not even she is arrogant enough to risk insulting her.”
“Well, that’s good to hear—because I know where the Cauldron is, and want to return it there.”
Gwion’s eyes widened. “What? Why didn’t you say anything? You found it?”
“Yes. I spent days exploring all of the wretched tunnels within those damn caves. I couldn’t find a way out, until I swam through an underwater chamber and found another cavern. That’s where I found it. Unfortunately, it was too heavy to move. There was no way to get it out. That’s where I was attacked—by a great black wolf, like the one you said attacked Lucia.”
“Yes, a great black wolf—such a creature was also the death of the great Belenus in the East.”
“What?” No! Not Belenus! Would the darkness never cease taking his loved ones? He stopped rowing, put his oars up and dropped his forehead in his hands, sitting in silence with the dark news. “Gods! Belenus has fallen?” he asked in disbelief, bracing himself to hear the words again.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Lucia told us he died a hero’s death.”
“I have no doubt.” Bran sighed. “A more noble and brave king there has never been.” With a heavy heart, he sai
d a silent warrior’s prayer for him and then took up the oars again. Soon after he had a thought. “Gwion?”
“Yes.”
“After I killed the wolf, its body twisted before me into the shape of a man—a deformed, black-haired man, with one eye that would not open.”
Gwion was silent, his hand limp on the rudder. “You killed him? Are you certain?”
Bran nodded. “Yes. I cut off his head and dumped him in the pool, so there would be no way to resurrect him. There were creatures within that water that I know don’t see very much meat—I’m confident there’s nothing left of him but bones.”
Gwion shook his head in concern.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think you killed Cerridwen’s son, Morvran. If so, you’ll need protection from her. She’ll be inconsolable, and full of wrath. Whatever curses she’s able to conjure—and they are many—she’ll place upon you. She loved him more than anything.”
“Well, it was either him or me, and I chose me.”
“Of course. I’m glad you did. Don’t worry. The Great Mother has a plan. We must put ourselves in her hands.”
Bran pondered Cerridwen’s wrath. “Easier said than done.”
“True.”
For the rest of the day, Bran rowed and Gwion guided the rudder. Ula lay in the bow of the boat, her hand and arm trailing in the water, occasionally jumping in to swim alongside them. The river’s current turned gentle, the air off the water fresh, and Bran found it all deeply soothing.
At dusk, that feeling faded. Bran watched the banks more intently, his eyes adjusting to the darkness he had come to know so well. Through the night, he and Gwion took turns at the rudder, luckily spotting no cauldron-born.
“At this rate, we’ll reach the lake by sundown tomorrow,” Gwion announced happily. “Let me take the oars awhile. You can sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”
“Be my guest,” Bran said, grateful for the opportunity. He stretched out in the boat next to Ula. She came in close to him and rested her head on his chest. He sighed in contentment, looking up at the stars overhead. If she hadn’t smelled like raw fish, he would have kissed her on the lips. He kissed the top of her head instead.