This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘How can you defend him? He is responsible for the deaths of your brother, your father—’

  ‘No, Mother . . . you are responsible.’

  ‘Gwion had one job to do,’ Keridwen hissed. ‘Gwyn ap Nudd told me he would betray us, and I didn’t want to believe him—’

  ‘Gwyn ap Nudd sent Morwyn to ensure Morvran would not take that brew . . . Gwion didn’t stand a chance of dragging him to the sanctum! All he did was try to save your damned potion! The Night Hunter must have feared your association with Gwion something fierce to go to such lengths to drive a wedge between you. Do you not see that?’

  Keridwen seemed dazed for a moment and then laughed at the suggestion.

  ‘What could possibly be funny?’ Creirwy was at her wits end.

  ‘If what you say is true, the plan backfired badly.’

  ‘Where is Gwion?’

  ‘He is gestating inside my womb,’ Keridwen announced dryly.

  ‘What? No—’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mother made it clear that she was quite serious.

  ‘But then he will be my . . . brother.’ Creirwy was shattered. ‘How could this happen?’

  ‘As a chicken I ate him as seed.’ Her mother shrugged, just as dazed by the event. ‘Somehow during the transformation from a hen to my regular form, that seed bypassed my digestion and was implanted in my womb – or so the Lord of the Otherworld informs me. Needless to say he is furious as there is a good chance now that Gwion will be reborn immortal.’

  This news made Creirwy smile for the first time all month. ‘I guess we shall find out in nine months.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Keridwen had a most peculiar look on her face. ‘To ensure the child does not draw upon any Otherworldly energy, the Night Hunter has decreed that he will only develop during the time I spend here in the physical world.’

  ‘And?’ Creirwy couldn’t see a problem.

  ‘And . . . I am only being granted permission to visit with you for one day, every full moon.’

  Creirwy gasped. ‘You shall be pregnant an age!’ She was attempting to do the maths in her head.

  ‘Twenty-three years and three months.’ Keridwen had already done the calculation.

  ‘I shall be old before we meet again, or quite likely dead.’ Creirwy gripped her stomach; mulling over the paradox was making her feel quite ill.

  ‘No matter. He will die at birth,’ Keridwen said coolly. ‘The Night Hunter will devise a means.’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Creirwy implored. ‘Please, if you love me—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much I wish to kill him, or how much the Night Hunter wants him dead . . . I know that somehow he survives.’

  ‘You foresee this?’ Creirwy had to know so that she too could be so assured.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I have met him before, in ancient times—’

  At this point Creirwy’s jaw dropped and she gasped. ‘Are you telling me a fable to get back in my favour?’

  ‘I wish I were . . . for his redemption can only come at my expense.’ Keridwen’s large grey-green eyes glazed over. ‘I always wondered how he made the immortal leap in human form.’ She cracked half a grin, but her voice was full of spite. ‘Now I know. That would explain why he never discussed that part of his story with me.’

  Creirwy was bemused. ‘But . . . if he is born now, how does he end up back in ancient times?’

  Keridwen raised both brows. ‘One of his many enigmas.’

  ‘Could you not read his mind like you do everyone else’s?’

  Again Keridwen shook her head. ‘He was very powerful back then. Yet he never used his power abusively. To think, I rather admired him . . . when all the while he was keeping this—’ she pointed to her lower belly ‘—from me.’

  Creirwy hated her mother for what she’d done to them all, and what was worse was that she was still blaming Gwion for her shortcomings. But Creirwy was too invested in this mystery to distance herself from it. ‘If you are lying to me to stall for time to mend our battered acquaintance, I swear—’

  Keridwen held up a hand to silence her. ‘No threats necessary, it is the truth. That said, am I welcome to visit every full moon, or do I carry this child to term elsewhere?’

  ‘Of course you are welcome.’ But Creirwy hated to see her mother appear relieved and added, ‘Only because you carry the soul of the man I love, and you had better pray the Fey will defend you if you don’t.’

  ‘All settled then.’ Her mother wasn’t fazed by the threat in the least. ‘So what are we eating?’

  As the months and seasons rolled around, Creirwy had a chance to come to terms with Gwion’s metamorphosis and the loss of her father and brother, and gradually her animosity towards her mother lessened. They were both hurting, and mere novices at processing their own emotions. But what they discovered was that acceptance and forgiveness hurt less; it made them feel lighter and their time together more pleasant. This revelation gave rise to a new kind of appreciation for each other’s company. Morda was a sweet old man, but his conversation was not the most stimulating, and he never spoke about his feelings. Creirwy found herself looking forward to her mother’s visits. Keridwen was the only person Chiglas would behave for, probably because he’d realised that Grandma could bend him to her will whether he liked it or not. As he grew and became more rambunctious and obnoxious, the threat of Grandma coming soon was the only means Creirwy had to bring him under control. At this point he was only a toddler and she shuddered to think what he would be like once he hit puberty.

  At the age of two, Chiglas was the size of an average five year old. He relished hunting with Morda as he was fascinated with death and blood. He hated to bathe and often finger painted with his own excretions, on the floor, walls and himself; any excess would be used as ammunition to throw at others. Although he enjoyed playing in any sort of filth, he never got sick. Creirwy, however, fell sick often after cleaning him. Chiglas was always casting off his clothes, no matter the weather, and playing with his private parts in an extremely lurid manner for a child. He was just as the Night Hunter had described – he disgusted Creirwy in every way, and she was loath to imagine what was going on in that wretched little mind of his. What annoyed her most was that he wouldn’t speak. The child grunted, pointed and expected her to understand. If she didn’t guess what he wanted right away, he’d fly into a tantrum and start throwing things.

  This day she’d had enough of his abuse and grabbing his fat little feet, she dragged him into the lock-up and shut him in. ‘You will stay there until you learn to communicate without throwing things.’

  The look of disdain he served her as he crawled to the bars and pulled himself up to standing, chilled her to the bone. He’d stopped screaming, but was drawing in a breath, so deep and long that his face began to turn red.

  ‘Ah.’ Creirwy’s head began to throb. The pain became acute in seconds and she was forced to take a seat. From her nose warm fluid began to flow, down over her lips and into her mouth – it was blood.

  Feed me, bitch, or I’ll find something sharp to throw!

  A gravelly, mature voice cut through her mind, so malefic in nature that the core of her being quaked and sent shock-filled waves radiating through her body. Her attention shot back to Chiglas – was he doing this?

  Feed me! He slammed both fists into the bars, screeching in time with the command in her head.

  She near jumped out of her skin – the voice was his.

  Stupid whore! Give me food! He continued to rattle the bars, and grunt and squawk.

  The noise of the din and the voice shredding her nerves raw from within was too much; she had to get out of there.

  Get back here . . .

  Creirwy stumbled to the door and outside, where Morda spotted her and ran to her aid.

  ‘Lady, what has happened?’ He guided her to an upturned log, where she sat down.

  Like a vice being removed from her skull, the pain ebbed and her mind fell silent. ‘It’s stopped,�
�� she mumbled, wavering from exhaustion. ‘I’m afraid he—’

  Sleep rushed up on her and snatched away all Creirwy’s unspoken fears.

  The incident was a rude awakening for Creirwy, and it was the first time she seriously considered killing the boy – a resolve she realised had come too late.

  After the episode Chiglas was much better behaved. Maybe he sensed he’d pushed her too far, but for some time after he did not attempt to force his way into her mind unless he could not make her understand his need. He’d shown no sign of being able to read her thoughts, but could have been biding his time to spring that fact on her. If his telepathic skill extended to accessing her thoughts, Creirwy knew secrets that could destroy Cymru – some of which even she should not have been privy to. With such information, Chiglas could do untold damage in the future. Not to mention that he would sense any attempt on his life coming! He needed only to force his way inside her head – or the head of any would-be assassin – and squeeze just a little tighter than he did now, to take out his killer before they ever got close enough to be a threat. Did he know how powerful he was? Could he understand more than he let on? He showed no interest in any talk that went on between herself and Morda, or her mother. His body looked more mature than any child his age, his telepathic voice was deep and threatening, but how mature was his mind? Creirwy silently tested him periodically, by thinking things that might make him react, like – look, dead bird, or, ouch, I cut myself. He never flinched. Only if she made the same comment out loud did he respond.

  Regardless, she was not prepared to test his patience. When he’d been younger she had tried feeding him plants known to be poisonous and giving him sedating brews, but nothing seemed to affect his iron-clad constitution.

  The storeroom became his regular room, and he did not protest being locked in there when he slept, so long as he was let out to hunt with Morda.

  At present Chiglas needed her, but the day would come when he did not.

  For several years they remained completely secluded from the outside world, and you could have knocked Creirwy over with a feather when, one late spring morning, Queen Ganhumara rode into their midst, along with Neiryn – the bard Gwion had entrusted with the Ring of Invisibility.

  The young queen apologised for the intrusion and asked to speak with Creirwy in private.

  As the ladies headed indoors, Neiryn was heard to ask Morda – chopping wood close by – of Gwion’s whereabouts.

  ‘Gone,’ said Morda.

  ‘Gone where?’ Neiryn was clearly disappointed.

  Morda merely shrugged.

  ‘He’s gone to the Otherworld,’ Creirwy paused to advise before moving to head inside.

  ‘When will he return? The King will wish to know,’ Neiryn added, perhaps to justify his prying.

  ‘In a little under twenty years.’ Creirwy broke the news, and it did not land lightly.

  ‘Twenty years!’ Neiryn was mortified.

  ‘What can I say? Time has no meaning there.’ The Lady followed her guest inside.

  Neither of their visitors had ever been to Llyn Tegid before, and so made no comment on the devastation of the island or castell. Creirwy didn’t have to ask why the Queen was here – she already knew. The dress Ganhumara wore was not a creation of the splendid tunic that Gwyn ap Nudd had given her; the garment was far too ordinary. ‘You wish to know if you can return the Night Hunter’s gift?’ She motioned the Queen to a seat, and she promptly sat down, her eyes never leaving her hostess.

  ‘Yes, great Lady. I fear it is cursed.’

  ‘You cannot give it back; it will only return to your possession. But it is not the reason you cannot fall with child.’ Creirwy was forthright, but lowered her voice as she sat down, as Chiglas stirred from his slumber. He was locked inside his cage, huddled up the back in the shadows, and glancing in his direction, she saw the blanket that covered him settle once more.

  Ganhumara noted the sound but, no doubt thinking it was an animal they had locked behind bars in the storeroom, she paid it no mind. ‘Then what is the cause?’ She followed Creirwy’s lead and spoke in a hushed manner. ‘Why does the dress threaten to squeeze the life out of me if I so much as look at another man?’

  ‘What other man?’ Creirwy realised the gift was already working its evil upon the King’s marriage.

  ‘No one in particular.’ The girl was lying through her teeth.

  Creirwy served her a look of scepticism. ‘Neiryn?’

  ‘Nay, Lady, he is a holy man.’ Ganhumara obviously found the suggestion scandalous.

  Creirwy shrugged. ‘That wouldn’t deter me.’

  Ganhumara’s jaw dropped. ‘You were in love with Gwion Bach.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that was a topic of speculation,’ Creirwy lied; she knew the King wondered about them, and probably everyone in Viroco following the royal wedding. ‘But we are here to talk about you. You love your king but . . . you have started to wonder if you are the cause of your barrenness, or whether your husband is the problem.’

  Ganhumara lowered her gaze to the floor in shame. ‘I must bear him a son, or a child, at least!’ Our marriage will be considered invalid, or worse, cursed, if I do not fall pregnant with an heir to the kingdom soon! I shall be discarded for another woman more able, and my family will lose their high standing within the realm. And Gilmore has—’ She gasped on her own betrayal.

  ‘Have you lost your wits? Gilmore is your king’s champion!’ Creirwy hissed. ‘Find a nice anonymous stable boy! Then kill him afterwards.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered back. ‘The heir of Powys must be noble—’

  The sudden intense pain in her head alerted Creirwy to the fact that Chiglas was awake and listening.

  Mine!

  ‘Lady, your nose is bleeding.’ Ganhumara was alarmed, and passed Creirwy a cloth from a bench.

  Mine, mine, mine. Chiglas’s grunting became louder.

  ‘You should go.’ Creirwy grabbed the Queen’s arm and raced her to the door.

  ‘Why, what is happening?’ The younger woman was hysterical as they re-entered the courtyard. ‘Is the Night Hunter mad with me?’

  Outside beyond Chiglas’s field of influence the pain backed off and Creirwy pulled Ganhumara closer to whisper in her ear. ‘The King is the problem, but that is not to say you do not have your own. I can guarantee nothing. Think very carefully before you risk the stability of your marriage and the entire kingdom for what could prove a fruitless folly.’ She felt for the girl, suffering for her husband’s debts to the Otherworld.

  So long as a queen remained barren, any misfortune that befell the kingdom could be blamed on her, and she would be replaced.

  ‘But should you reach desperation point, hide the tunic, say it was stolen and be very, very careful what you do thereafter.’

  Ganhumara’s face filled with gratitude and she nodded. ‘I will consider all your advice at great length. Know that I am so very grateful for it.’ The Queen departed for her horse.

  ‘I look forward to our next meeting,’ Neiryn called from just beyond her gate and then bowed. ‘My Lady.’ The bard departed after his charge to hold her mount.

  Creirwy’s eyes diverted back to the house, and a shiver ran through her as she considered Chiglas’s violent reaction to the mention of the kingdom of Powys. Was he implying that the kingdom was his? Or had it been Ganhumara he was referring to – for he’d never seen a beautiful young woman before? She quietly hoped it was the latter, or was that just wishful thinking?

  It was only one half turn of the moon later and barely summer when the King himself arrived at Llyn Tegid with several armed guards – the mounted party could be heard thundering into the valley from some distance away.

  Creirwy’s first fear was that Ganhumara had done something impetuous and got them both in strife. But whatever the reason for this visit was, the King and Chiglas must be kept apart. Thus she awaited the King’s party in the courtyard outside the cottage – the bard was among them,
Gilmore was not. The men dismounted their horses in the wood beyond and did not enter through the gates into the courtyard with the King.

  ‘Show them to the stream, where they can water the horses,’ she instructed Morda, wishing to handle this meeting alone.

  ‘What happened here?’ The King skipped the formalities, unable to drag his eyes from the lake.

  ‘Mother and the Night Hunter had a disagreement.’

  ‘Where is the Goddess now?’

  ‘Gone. Everyone is gone. There has been only Morda and myself here for some years now.’

  ‘Gone where?’ The King finally dragged his sights from the much altered view, and turned his focus to Creirwy, appearing bewildered anew. ‘Are you quite well, Lady? Perhaps we should go inside?’

  ‘I am perfectly well,’ she stated, as if it were commonplace for the Lady Tegid to appear haggard, aged and dressed in rags. ‘My family are dead. Gwion is gone, and Mother visits only on such occasion as the Lord of the Otherworld permits.’

  Owain took a moment to fathom her response and his demeanour softened. ‘I am so very sorry . . . Why did you not send news? I could have been of aid—’

  ‘I appreciate your condolences, my Liege . . . but I expect whatever business you had here is now redundant.’ She folded her arms, hoping he got the message that he was not welcome.

  Owain served her an odd look – either he suspected something was off, or he felt she was disrespecting her king. ‘To the contrary, I wish to know what happened. We have travelled some distance this day, so some refreshment would also be greatly appreciated.’ He gazed at her, to closely gauge the response.

  Now that she was human, Creirwy did not have Fey glamour to bend men to her will, nor the same talent for keeping her expression impassive. ‘My dwelling is too humble for your highness, but I can bring refreshment for you and your men in the courtyard.’

  ‘What are you hiding in there?’ Owain challenged. ‘Gwion?’ The suggestion spurred him to the front door and he let himself in.

  ‘No!’ Creirwy went after him. ‘I swear to you . . . he is not here.’