‘So they were, in the thirteenth century, under Rhys Grug of Dinefwr. Physicians of great renown.’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes, with us, it’s hard to know where history ends and the story begins. “The Lady of Llyn y Fan Fach” is one such tale, full of otherworldly tests and reversals of fortune. It’s no easy task to woo a fairy woman, you understand. Let alone for her to dwell in the land of men.’
He glanced at Siân.
‘You’re not the only one asking for stories, bach. We’ve had requests, from others in steerage. We’d like to tell a story every Friday until the end of the voyage.’
‘Stories! Every week! And you want to start with the lake woman? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. If you don’t mind helping with the preparation.’
‘Me? I can’t pronounce the name of that lake, let alone write it down.’
Rhys laughed. ‘First you must experience the story, then worry about writing it down.’
‘How will I remember if I don’t take notes?’
‘Start in your heart, feel the parts. Once you’ve heard it a couple of times, you’ll come up with your own version of the tale.’
‘But …’ Bridie stopped, chewing her lip. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
‘Did you write notes when your dad told stories?’
‘No.’
‘Then that is how we must begin.’
Siân began to hum. Arms on his knees, Rhys fixed his gaze on the deck. Bridie saw the nervous swallow of his throat, his too-tight fists, heard the sudden sharp intake of his breath.
‘High up in a hollow of the Black Mountains is a tiny, mysterious sheet of water pressed into the surrounding crests like a giant’s thumbprint. Llyn y Fan Fach, people call it, the lake of the small peak. Once upon a time, a widow lived in the shadow of those dark peaks, a poor widow who, having lost her husband to the sword, vowed her son, Ianto, would not earn his bread by soldiering.
‘Being a gentle, sensitive young man, Ianto had no lust for battle. He liked nothing more than to graze his cattle on the shores of Llyn y Fan Fach. The light was different there, he told Mam, the air thinner. Sometimes, as he sat in the shadow of those dark peaks, he fancied he heard the Fair Folk singing.
‘As Ianto wandered the shores of the lake one day, he saw a sight to make him tremble. There, perched on top of the water, was a maiden—a most comely maiden, combing her long dark tresses.
‘Now, Ianto might have been a dreamer, but he was no fool. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten, certain this was nothing but a trick of the light on him. Imagine his wonder and surprise, then, when he opened them again to find the maiden still present. Indeed, if he was not mistaken, she was even lovelier than he imagined.
‘Ianto fumbled in his pack for the hunk of barley bread Mam had baked for him that morning. It was burned black along one edge and hardly an inducement for one so comely. But Ianto knew better than to approach the Fair Ones empty handed.
‘The maiden’s scarlet sandals barely rippled the water surface as she floated towards him. She stopped, wrinkling her nose at the sight of his meagre offering.’
‘Oh handsome youth standing so truly,
With hard baked bread you will not persuade me.’
Bridie leaned forward, notebook and paper forgotten as Siân sang the maiden’s response. Indeed, as the Welsh girl gazed upon her husband, her face alight with love and longing, it was hard not to imagine her the fairy maiden and Rhys the handsome young man who had lost his heart to her.
Glancing up, Bridie saw a gathering knot of onlookers.
‘Only practising.’ Rhys smiled at the group. ‘I’ll have my fiddle, come Friday night, and tell the whole thing properly.’
‘Over supper that evening, Mam could scarcely credit Ianto’s strange tale. She’d had so few dealings with the Fair Family. But seeing her handsome son in a fever of agitation, she determined to help him. Next morning, she sent him up the mountain with unbaked bread as his portion.
‘All day, Ianto wandered the shores of the lake, watching the sun burn away its mists and deer drink from its waters, seeing each ripple of the wind and every tiny fish that broke its surface. Until, at last, the day’s light began to fade.
‘Turning to leave, Ianto took a final, parting glance across the water. There, coming towards him, was the maiden. She wore an emerald gown and the setting sun for her mantle and, as he stood on the rocky shore, Ianto thought his heart might burst with love for her. He held out the bread dough Mam had provided, but the maiden only laughed, shaking her head at him.’
‘Oh handsome youth standing so truly,
With unbaked bread you will not woo me.’
‘Ianto scarcely slept a wink that night. For all knew the Fair Folk only gave three chances. But Mam was undaunted. The maiden must love her handsome son. Why else would she have appeared to him? The following day, she sent Ianto up the mountain with a barley loaf baked to perfection.
‘All day Ianto wandered the rocky shores of the lake, watching magpies swoop and dragonflies skim the surface of the water, hearing bird trill and the patient lowing of his cattle. Until, at last, the day’s shadows lengthened into the purple of early evening.
‘With a sinking heart, Ianto turned his face homeward. When he reached the first bend in the path, he heard a tinkling laughter. Unable to believe his good fortune, he sprinted back up the mountain, and held the barely loaf out to the maiden.
‘“Maiden, sweet maiden, turn not your face away,
‘With this perfect bread I beg you to marry me.”’
‘The maiden lowered her dusky lashes and accepted his offering with a slender hand.’
‘I will marry you, mortal, on one condition.
That you make not a habit of striking me causelessly.’
‘Now, being a gentle young man, Ianto could scarcely imagine crossing words with this delightful creature, let alone striking her. But before he could utter a word of protest she sank beneath the water.
‘“No! Wait!” Though unable to swim, Ianto was determined to plunge in after her.
‘“Halt! Do not destroy yourself,” a booming voice called out to him.
‘To Ianto’s surprise, a hoary-headed man with a gold torque strode towards him. Floating behind him was not one, but two fairy maidens.
‘“I will grant your request, mortal, on one condition. That you tell me which of these maidens you love most truly.”’
Closing her eyes, Siân sang the aching chasm of Ianto’s confusion—recalling the smooth curve of the maiden’s breasts, the rosy depth of her blushes, the mole growing betwixt her left ear and her hairline, the way she fluttered her lashes. But though he searched the depths of his soul, calling on the timeless wisdom of the lake and mountains, Ianto could not find a distinction. The maidens were seemingly pressed from the same mould.
‘But as Ianto was about to give up and throw himself into the icy depths of the lake, one of the maidens thrust her sandaled foot forward. Ianto’s heart leapt, for her sandal was scarlet, whereas her sister’s was only a deep maroon. He reached out, grasping the maiden’s hand.
‘“This—this is the maiden I love the best!”
‘“You have chosen well, mortal, and I will provide a dowry. For as many head of cattle my daughter can count without drawing breath will be your portion. But hear this young man, take heed of my warning. The moment you strike a third causeless blow, she and all her dowry will return to these waters.”
‘Ianto walked back down the mountain path a wealthy man. But, though he loved his Fairy Wife, it did not take him long to realise she was not like other women. She neither aged nor grew weary, and people from all over the district benefitted from her healing remedies. She was also subject to strange, otherworldly moods. But, as the months stretched into years, and three fine sons were added to their number, Ianto grew accustomed to her difference. So accustomed, that he came to forget the strange conditions of their courtship.
‘So it was, on a blustery morning, as the fam
ily rode out for church, Ianto tapped his wife on the arm with his riding crop. It was a mistake. He knew as soon as the first blow had fallen. The Fairy Woman turned reproachful eyes on him.’
‘Oh handsome man, take heed of my warning.
With two more blows our marriage will be forfeit.’
‘Ianto took great care over the coming months,’ Rhys continued softly, ‘touching his wife only in moments of great tenderness. For, despite her strangeness, he loved his Fairy Wife and could not bear the thought of losing her. But when she began to sob at a wedding feast, he could not contain his impatience.
‘“Hist, wife. Why are you crying?”
‘Ianto grasped his wife’s shoulder, urging her not to spoil the occasion. It worked. Her sobs eased. But as the tears dried on her cheeks, Ianto realised he’d struck the second blow.’
‘Oh handsome man take heed of my warning,
With one more blow our marriage will be forfeit.’
‘The next few months were filled with days carefully trodden. Ianto took great pain never to rebuke his wife, only coaxing her gently as her moods worsened. On good days, he bought her sweets and flowers, giving her reasons to stay with him. But when she laughed wildly during a burial service, he could not contain his fury.
‘“Hush, wife! Why are you laughing?”
‘He reached out, grasping her roughly. As the laughter died on his wife’s lips, Ianto realised he’d struck the final blow.’
‘I laugh, husband, for a soul released from suffering,
As you will now mourn for a blow causelessly given.’
‘All the way home, Ianto begged his wife not to leave him. White lipped, she shook her head, refusing to enter into a discussion. For no matter how deeply she loved her husband, nor how greatly she would miss her children, by the law she lived under, their marriage was now forfeit. On reaching the farm, she began to summon her dowry.’
‘Come speckled cow, brindled cow,
Black cow and grey one,
Come milch cow and meat cow,
Come calf young and suckling,
Come heifer and bullock
Come oxen team ploughing,
Come beast from the field,
Come steer gently grazing,
Come wealth of Ianto,
Come turn your face homeward.’
Tears slid down Bridie’s cheeks as Siân gathered the Fairy Woman’s cattle with her song. She didn’t know why. It was only a story, a fairy tale from a far off time and place. But all that love, those horrible tests, Ianto’s careful restraint and, in the end, the Fairy Woman still left him. She heard the cattle lowing, Ianto’s retching sobs as he followed them up the mountain, hooves clattering on the rocky shore line, the Fairy Woman’s sons pleading. But nothing could persuade her. There was nothing anyone could do to change things.
‘Ianto’s heart was broken.’ Rhys picked up the tale. ‘Neither the love of his sons nor the sacraments could bring him healing. His eldest son, Rhiwallon, took his father’s decline the hardest. All day long, he wandered the rocky shores of the lake in search of a solution. One evening, a year and a day from her departure, his mother appeared to him. Dropping to his knees, Rhiwallon begged her to return and save his father. But the Fairy Woman could not grant his request, only gift him a brown leather satchel filled with healing remedies.
‘After nursing his father back to health, Rhiwallon went on to become a physician of great renown, passing his mother’s remedies onto his sons, and their sons, and down through the ages. Even now, those who live in the shadow of the Black Mountains sometimes find themselves touched by the Fairy Woman’s power.’
Bridie didn’t know how long she sat there after the story finished. An age it seemed—with her chest heaving and her hanky sodden, thinking of babies called home before their time, her dad’s long and bitter illness, his strange, turbulent moods, Ma’s even-now bitterness. She became aware of Siân’s soft humming, Rhys’s dark, considered gaze, the knot of onlookers drifting away. She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Sorry. I won’t cry every time.’
‘No need to apologise, Bridie Stewart. There is no greater compliment to a story teller.’
‘But … Rhys? Do you think she wanted to leave?’
‘I don’t know, bach. The story doesn’t tell us. Only that the maiden loved Ianto enough to thrust her sandaled foot forward and that she bore him three fine sons.’
‘But, laughing at a funeral, sobbing at a wedding? She wouldn’t have done those things if she’d loved him.’
‘We don’t know why the Fairy Woman laughed at the funeral, bach. Or indeed, why she sobbed at a wedding. Maybe she mourned for the bride, seeing problems others could not perceive. Maybe she grieved for her first life, the ones she’d left behind. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t love Ianto. Or that she wanted to leave him.’
‘I think it does. I think she hated him.’
‘Indeed, that is why you feel the story so deeply. You are not alone in that, Bridie bach. No doubt, Ianto asked the same questions. For they are the questions of the ages—how we tell a true story from one fashioned merely for entertainment. For in the plight of each character, we confront our heart’s reasons. Do not fear those reasons, bach, be they ever so painful. Only promise you’ll write about them in your own version of the story.’
Bridie barely touched her evening meal. Neither did she join in the after supper sing-along. When Alf suggested they start work on their voyage log, she almost snapped his head off. With an alarmed glance in Ma’s direction, he turned back to his tasks. Bridie climbed into her bunk and spent a lonely evening staring at the deck boards above. She had no desire to write the Fairy Woman’s story, or to think about it ever again. But she’d promised Rhys—and she did want to save her notebook, to learn to see with different eyes. Only, who’d have thought the process would be so painful? Or that Ianto’s questions would reach down to her through the ages?
She woke the next morning in a tangle of bedclothes. Her plaits had unravelled during the night, her hair seeming to compete with the welter of thoughts in her head. It took an age to find her ribbons and to drag a comb through the mess of her curls. Added to which, her bodice seemed to have shrunk. No matter how she tugged at the laces, she couldn’t seem to fasten them.
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Ma stepped onto the bench. ‘Climb down and let me help you.’
‘I’m not a child.’
Ma gave a knowing smile. ‘Child or not, we’ll need to adjust that bodice soon. You’re certainly moody enough to be a young woman in the making.’
Bridie scowled, turning her back on Ma as she wrenched at the laces of her bodice. She didn’t want to be a woman—made or unmade. She certainly didn’t want to discuss it now, in steerage, while everyone ate breakfast. Gathering notebook, scrap paper and pencils, Bridie shoved her feet into her boots.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘On deck, Ma. I’m not hungry.’
Ma’s gaze flicked from the table to her notebook. ‘A growing girl needs to keep her strength up.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not having any.’
‘Suit yourself. There will be no more until dinner time.’
This wasn’t true. Pam made elevenses every morning. This usually involved leftover pudding. But Bridie was in no mood to argue.
She climbed the hatchway ladder under Ma’s narrowed gaze.
For once, the sky wasn’t blue. It had filled with dirty lowering clouds. The wind also matched her mood. It flattened her skirts as she staggered towards the lee side of the ship. She sank down beside the cargo hatch, tucked her notebook behind her back, and balanced the wad of scrap paper on her knees. Where to begin?
This was a first draft, so she could start however she wanted. Maybe with a description, like … in the shadow of the black mountains? But, what did mountains look like? Dark, looming? She’d never seen a mountain. So what about starting with Ianto’s cottage?
She gave
it whitewashed walls and a flagstone floor, a small mean kitchen fire with a cauldron hanging over its coals. There were rag-rugs, made by Ianto’s mam, a row of chipped yellow crockery. Mementos of his dad lined the mantelpiece.
Bridie stopped, chewing her pencil.
Mementos. What would the widow have kept? A dagger maybe? His sword belt? No. She wouldn’t have wanted reminding. Besides, they were poor. She’d have sold those things. Ianto would have kept something, though—something small and secret, like a notebook.
No, that was her story. What about a brass button? Or a buckle?
She pictured their cattle, black like the Welsh drovers brought into Smithfield Market. Imagined moss and spring flowers growing along the shores of the lake. Ianto’s smile when he heard the Fair Folk singing. The catch of his breath when he first saw the maiden.
The maiden. What would she look like? Indeed, how to describe Ianto? Would he be slender and handsome, like Rhys? His wife dainty like Siân? No. She couldn’t write that. Not with the story ending so badly.
She gave the Fairy Woman straight russet hair and clear blue eyes, like her dad’s; Ianto soft brown curls and a wide, playful smile. They were happy, so happy walking down the mountain together that first evening, full of love and plans for the future as they exchanged first kisses in the moonlight.
Writing the next part was more difficult. Strange otherworldly moods? What did they look like? The Fairy Woman never got sick. So there was no fever or winter cough. But had she lain with her face to the wall, or wept without reason? Stayed out until late at night, perhaps started drinking? She’d loved Ianto at the beginning—Rhys had been most particular on that score—borne him three fine sons. So, what had changed things?
Did her healing powers start to wane over the years? Did she begin to feel less like a fairy and more like a human? Realise, one day, she would lose everything, even her ability to slip beneath the waters? Did she fear being left alone in the world of men and begin to plan her escape? Perhaps slipping a message into her brown leather satchel, knowing one day, in the not too distant future, she would leave them … forever.
Bridie stopped, her fingers curling around her pencil. So much pain, so many unanswered questions. Placing her scrap paper on the deck, she slid her notebook out from behind her back. The leather felt warm and firm. She opened the cover.
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