by J. M. Hofer
“I understand.”
Rowan disappeared into the misty trees, leaving him alone in the glade.
Bran climbed up to the upper pools until he found one to his liking, took off all his clothes and lowered himself into it. The Sisters had put flat rocks into the pool to serve as benches. He tried clearing his mind to listen for a message as Rowan had suggested, but found his mind merely wandered. I’m a warrior, not a druid. Sitting quietly was not something he had ever been able to do.
After an hour or so, he gave up on hearing from the Guardians or Great Mother, or whatever spirits he was supposed to be communing with, and decided to take his chances searching the pool below. He reached forward to get out. To his surprise, he noticed the pain in his shoulder was nearly gone. Well, that’s something to be thankful for. He eased himself back into the water. With his injuries fully healed, finding the sword would be easier.
The longer he soaked, the less pain he felt in his shoulder. Soon he felt completely weightless, unable to tell where his body ended and the water began. He sat motionless, focusing on his reflection in the water. The water flowing into the pool caused it to shift and change, distorting his features. The water continued to soothe his body until he felt no pain at all, and a euphoria took its place. It was not long before it was followed by a wave of guilt.
What the hell am I doing? Sitting here, relaxing like a queen in a hot bath while the clan is being attacked by cauldron-born? If the Great Mother has something she wishes to say to me, she will doubtless make it known. He stood up, irritated with himself. The cold air hit his skin like a whip and he welcomed it.
He made his way toward the ledge where water poured into the deep pool below. He bent over, intending to dive in, when something caught his eye from behind the waterfall.
A sword hilt! He stopped himself and nearly slipped over the edge. He moved across the strong current that flowed over the lip of the ledge, placing his steps carefully along the slick and mossy surface. There was nothing to hold on to—no branches, no rocks—nothing. He would need his rope. He made his way back across the treacherous rocks to where he had left his clothing and supplies.
“Gods!” he cried out, secretly cursing Rowan. She took it all! Nothing was where he had left it. Not his clothes, his pack, spear, or, most disturbing of all, Dyrnwyn.
He went back to the hot pool to think, for it was far too cold to stand there naked to the elements. He closed his eyes and his mind wound round and round the dilemma. There was a sword hilt there, behind the waterfall—I’m sure of it.
He went back to the place he had seen it. He would need to reroute the water, make a place to lie down and lean over the edge. He had built plenty of rock walls in his life. He would simply build another. He began moving heavy rocks into the water, stacking them in a crescent shape on the ledge where he had seen the sword hilt. It was slow work. He had to take regular breaks to warm his body in one of the pools.
Eventually, his curved wall was high enough that the water began to flow around it. At last!
He stepped into the clear space on the ledge noticed something strange about it. It was far too uniform to be natural. He hung the top half of his body over it and peered beneath it. A grotto!
The grotto was clearly used for worship. Symbols for the cauldron and the Great Mother were carved into the stones that peeked out between the verdant moss and plants that clung to its walls. There were many things to marvel at, but a sword hilt was not one of them.
Gods, I’m a fool. Gwion had clearly said the sword lay within the pool, yet he had wasted an entire day building a rock wall. He knew there was not be much daylight left, but he refused to leave the glade without Caledgwyn.
Frustrated, he dove into the pool below. The water was a strange mix of temperatures, ranging from warm to ice cold, which told him there had to be another water source besides the hot springs that fed into it. He opened his eyes and explored along the many crevices of its rocky bottom. He saw many small figurines and bits of jewelry or beads that had surely been offerings to the Great Mother from the priestesses. There were a few daggers as well, but no swords.
Over and over he dove down, searching each section of the pool in turn, yet found nothing but small offerings.
Out of curiosity, he followed a current of cold water, wondering from where it flowed. He found it came forth from behind some rocks that had clearly been placed there by human hands. Did they put them here to try and keep the cold water out of the pool? Or maybe to hide something?
He tried to dislodge the stones, but they were slick and heavy, and refused to be moved easily. He had to swim up for air many times as he worked. He managed to get one out of the way, and looked into the place that was now clear.
He waved his hand in front of it, clearing away silt and moss. His heart jumped. There’s something in there! He swam up to the surface for another breath. It was late afternoon. He would have to hurry.
He dove down and removed a few more rocks, revealing the unmistakable hilt of a sword, inlaid with amber and gold. He stretched his arm in, but could not reach it. Just a few more stones.
He swam up to the surface once again to catch his breath, but when he returned, the sword he had surely seen was no longer there. He frantically moved the rocks away from the place he had seen it, thinking it might have become dislodged by the current or moved while he was at the surface, but found nothing.
Gods! He swam up, despondent. Was it a trick? Where did it go? He wiped the water from his eyes. Night was falling. Whatever had happened, there was nothing he could do about it now.
He wondered if perhaps in the grotto there might be torches or other things left behind that he could use to get through the night. He would need a fire. He swam toward the dark opening beneath the waterfall and discovered rock stairs when he put his feet down.
He climbed out of the pool and entered the grotto, arms outstretched and fingers trailing along the wet corridor. Warm water seeped down the rock over his hands. The air became warmer and wetter the farther in he went.
The sounds around him changed. He was in a larger chamber, warm enough to sleep in. He felt around and found deer skins on the floor. He imagined the Sisters used them to sit upon during prayer or rituals. He lay down, covering his naked body with the skins, and relaxed in the warmth. His body grew heavy, and his breathing smooth and even.
A prayer rose, unbidden, in his mind. “Blessed is your womb, Great Mother, from which all life is born. I have come to you naked and humble, as a child, to submit myself to your will. I am your servant. Use me as you wish.”
He drifted off to sleep, the prayer repeating itself to the rhythm of his breath, until he heard a voice.
Some things cannot be taken, my child. They must be asked for.
A wave of shame came over him.
I am unworthy of being here. I am in a holy and sacred place, dedicated to the Great Mother, yet I offered her no prayer or sacrifice. I did nothing but throw rocks around, force her water to flow where I wanted, sat impatiently in her pools, and stomped around plotting how I would take something I wanted. Not until now had he allowed himself to be guided by its peacefulness.
“I am ashamed, Great Mother. I ask for your forgiveness.”
I forgive you.
“How may I serve you?”
Bring no death here. Shed no blood in my name.
“Great Mother, I seek Caledgwyn not to shed the blood of the living, nor to subject others to my will, but rather to return the dead to their peaceful rest—to return them to Lord Arawn. Such work is the work of men—we are the reapers who plow the fields under, so that new life may be brought forth. I ask for your blessing and the means to do this work. The name under whom blood will be shed shall be his, my lady, not yours.”
Then it is not my blessing you need, child. It is his. Gain it, and you shall have what you seek.
This he had not expected, and he shivered at the prospect. No creature that roamed the earth, living or unde
ad, struck fear into the heart of Bran—but the idea of meeting Arawn made all wise men anxious, be they slave, warrior, or king.
The songs say, that as your life drains out of you, you will hear his white hounds baying in the distance when they have caught your scent—the scent of a dying man, who will soon bow down before Arawn and be judged.
He could not sleep, consumed with the knowledge that he would have to call upon the one god wise men never dared to call upon, for to behold his face meant your heart no longer beat among the living.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Annwn
Bran lay in the warm darkness for a long time, considering his words carefully. He dreaded saying them, but knew it was the only way.
He stood and spoke, “Great Arawn, Lord of the Otherworld, I humbly offer myself to you in service, and pledge my skills as an earthly Warrior to return the bodies of the cauldron-born to their graves, and thereby deliver unto you the souls that have been stolen from you by the sorceress Cerridwen. I ask for your blessing to pursue them.”
He waited for an answer or a sign. For what seemed a very long time, none came forth, until he noticed the air around him gradually growing colder—as if a winter wind had somehow found its way into the cave.
The sound of his breath and movements sounded smaller, and the space around him felt as if it were expanding. He reached down for the skins at his feet, but to his dismay, found they were no longer there. He had no idea what awaited him outside the cave, and certainly did not want to venture out into it naked, but it seemed he had no choice. So be it.
He followed the cold air and noticed that, as he moved out of the cave, his body felt lighter. The ground pulled at his feet less. His movements grew smoother.
Soon, he could not feel the hardness of the earth beneath his feet, nor the coldness of the air against his skin.
He emerged into a pale landscape cast in a strange silvery light.
He felt quite vulnerable, and looked around for something to cover himself with. If only I had my cloak!
He did not know what to do next. He could not make out anything of interest on the horizon, for the land looked the same in all directions.
He thought back on the stories of Arawn and the “in-between” that his mother had told him as a boy. He had always loved grisly tales, the more fearsome and bloody the better, and she told them with more skill than anyone, save Uncle Einon.
To his surprise, he found the horizon had shifted a bit. Things did not look the same as they had a moment before. The change was disorienting. He was hesitant to leave the cave behind. What if I never find it again?
There was nothing to be done for it, however. He knew staying there would not accomplish anything. He moved forward, hoping he would eventually find Arawn. More likely, Arawn will find me.
The landscape continued to drift, shifting around him. A forest came into view, as if a fog that had previously hidden it was being lifted.
The dark forests of Glyn Cuch. They were exactly as he had imagined them as a child, whenever his mother would tell him the tales of the legendary Pwyll, Lord of Dyved, who had met the Lord Arawn while hunting.
What strangeness is this? Rough, grey-black branches of trees wove together, twisting all about him, as if conspiring to ensnare him. They soon surrounded him. To his surprise, he found if he moved toward them, they dissipated—as if they were formed of nothing but ashes and shadows.
He moved faster through the bracken, tired of it obscuring his view, sailing through it impatiently.
Through the branches, he noticed a light. It was blinking in and out of view, small and faint in the distance, but discernible out of the corner of his eye. He moved toward it, curious and grateful to have something to move toward.
Could it be Arawn? He had no idea what the God of the Otherworld might really look like. He moved closer.
A woman! Her hair and skin were luminous, beckoning to him like a candle lit by a lover in a window. Fearful she might disappear, he called out to her. “Please! Hear me! I must speak with you…”
The trees faded away. He found himself standing in front of her, looking down into a deep valley with mountains on the other side.
He was overwhelmed by a familiarity. “Mother?” he asked tentatively, his soul feeding him the answer.
“Yes. You’ve been thinking of me.”
He had wondered if he would find her there.
She smiled at him. “I always draw near when you think of me, only here, the soil that thoughts are planted in is much richer. You will find they bloom into being very quickly, so I would caution you to take care what you plant, my son.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why do you think the forest appeared? Was it not what you expected the world of Arawn to look like? Do you think this is truly where he lives, or that he even hunts as men do in such forests?”
“I don’t know.” Bran shook his head. “Until now, for me, the Otherworld of Annwn was nothing but the speculations of men and the songs of the druids.”
She laughed. “And now? Now do you think this world consists of anything more than that?”
He felt confused. The sky around him darkened, clouds forming ominously in the distance.
“It seems a storm is brewing—one that I’m sure will clear up when you come to understand what I mean. When you do, you will know how to find Arawn.”
His mother’s words continued to perplex him.
“One more bit of advice,” she offered. “The more you explore this world, the easier it is to forget the world of the living. You must strive to remember why you have come.”
“Didn’t I come to see you?”
“No, son. Not for me. You came to offer yourself to Arawn, and do his bidding in the world of men.”
Arawn, yes. The cauldron-born. He remembered. “That doesn’t seem important to me now.”
“It is.” She took his hand and traced the symbol of the cauldron into it. The mark stayed upon his palm and she pressed her thumbs into it.
“You must remember,” she insisted.
He nodded, looking down at the symbol.
“I am with you, always,” she said in farewell. Her spirit began floating away, vanishing into the mist.
Mother, don’t go. He anguished at her departure, as if he were yet again a small boy. He cried out to her, but she was already gone.
He was left standing alone in the pale landscape.
The clouds had lengthened into smooth grey fingers that reached across the vast sky. Though many of the features of the countryside still shifted, there were now certain things that did not. The most noticeable were a distant dark fortress, set within the mountains on the horizon and a dry, rocky road, stretching out for miles in front of him.
He moved his weightless, ghostly feet swiftly along the road. Somehow, he was now dressed, his cloak billowing behind him on a breeze he could not feel.
The mountains looked to be days away, and he thought of Gethen. He would be glad of both the horse’s speed and company, and wished he were there.
What’s that? He sensed something gaining on him from behind, coming toward him at an alarming speed. He turned around in fear, and to his surprise the road he traveled upon did not appear behind him, only in front of him. He could not hear anything, but he knew something was coming for him. He suspected it might be Arawn’s hounds and didn’t want to risk an encounter with them.
He looked off the road for a place to hide, and a large boulder appeared. He leapt behind it to watch the road, but it had disappeared. He looked back toward where he had been for any sign of the beast he had heard, but saw nothing.
He rose to his feet, and the road rolled out from beneath where he now stood, toward the structure in the distance. What?
It was not long before he sensed he was being pursued again.
I’m not running. He turned and readied himself. He imagined a spear, and the weight of it solidified within his right hand.
His conf
idence soared as he waited, weapon poised, until a dark figure burst out of nothingness onto the road, nearly knocking him over.
After a moment of astonishment, he smiled in relief. His pursuer was a dark and regal form he knew well, with eyes pearlescent and luminous in the pale light, and a violet hue dancing on the curves of his body as he moved. Gethen!
“Always faithful, you are!” he grinned. “Even in the Otherworld! Did you hear me call to you?
He and Gethen were soon soaring as one being at astonishing speed through the rugged landscape. At times, it seemed they were flying over the land, everything shifting slightly around them, except for the road, unfurling toward the dark fortress in the distance.
The road descended into an ever-darkening valley, narrowing as forest crowded in upon it from both sides. Unlike the shadowy forest he had first encountered, its thorns and branches scratched and tore at flesh and hair, as real as any he had ever encountered among the living. It swallowed them into its web, arching over the road and obscuring the silver light from the sky.
He had to slow Gethen to a walk until the road widened and the trees thinned out.
He emerged on the shore of an immense dark lake, surrounded by rugged mountains. The peaks loomed over the water ominously, like hags lamenting the loss of their youth in a mirror, clutching the now huge and foreboding fortress within their craggy knuckles.
The water of the lake was clear and still, its bed filled with smooth, white stones. Peaceful, he thought, until he realized they were not stones at all. They were countless human skulls resting deep within the clear water, stretching as far as the eye could see.
He rode along the shore until they reached an immense archway, some forty feet high, made entirely of bones and antlers. Perched high upon it were hundreds of ravens. Arawn’s messengers. Escorts for the souls of the dead.
Bran felt their eyes on him, and shuddered. He rode with trepidation beneath the arch. All of the birds’ heads turned in unison, watching him pass beneath it. Not one black eye was trained on anything else.