The Apple and the Thorn

by Walter William Melnyk; Emma Restall Orr

  The Apple and theThorn

  by

  Walter William Melnyk

  and Emma Restall Orr

  Ancient Marshes Press

  Glen Mills, Pennsylvania

  Copyright 2007

  Walter William Melnyk and Emma Restall Orr

  First published in 2007 by

  Thoth Publications, United Kingdom

  Ancient Marshes Press Edition 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy, or transmission

  of this publication may be made without written permission

  of the authors, with the exception of brief excerpts

  for the purpose of literary review.

  The Moral Rights of the Authors have been asserted.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  The Tales of Avalon Series

  The Apple and the Thorn

  Tales of Avalon

  The Far Isles

  Ancient Marshes Press

  Cover Design and Maps by Avey

  ISBN:

  www.talesofavalon.com

  Dedication

  In honor of my goddess, I offer this tale of the powers of love and change.

  And in doing so do I bow to all who have honoured her, each priestess and seer of the land and the waters, of the dark womb and the setting sun,

  all who have heard her songs and the songs of the dead, since first my ancestors settled upon these sacred lands of Britain.

  Hail, Grandmothers.

  May your songs be ever sung.

  So mote it be.

  -- Emma Restall Orr

  I offer this tale to Glyn, my life partner,

  who has walked with me through the mists of countless adventures,

  and to the walkers between the worlds in every age

  who have had a desire to understand

  and the courage to be changed.

  -- Walter William Melnyk

  Preface to the Ancient Marshes Press Edition

  This story is not true in the sense that most people use the word. It emerges out of the mists of time, rooted deep in the heritage of Britain. It is a weave of mythologies, theologies, and histories. It is the story of two people, and a story of our peoples. It has no beginning and it has no ending.

  At the end of the book the reader will find a pronunciation guide and glossary for many names used in the tales that are based, sometimes very loosely, on modern Welsh, to give a sense of the ancient, while remaining somewhat accessible to modern readers.

  Chapter One

  The Marsh

  (Vivian)

  Whispering the names of the dead, my fingers slip down the wood of my staff. My knees bend and I sink to the mud, like a snow covered branch breaking with the rot of age, its falling muffled, easy, and I sit where I land, in the stillness of late winter. The last of the sun is a spill of molten copper, floating with languidity on the heavy dark water. It glints with the dying light on the ridges and furrows of ripples, a moorhen scudding for the reeds. Then the pattern is broken as, in a fluster of feathers, she scuttles for cover, the russet of a fox disappearing into the twilight. I smile, blessings of the close of day, Cedny. Her head peeks back through the tangle of twigs down by the water’s edge, and she gazes at me. For a long moment, we share the serenity of home.

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head against a branch of the old yew. It’s still damp from the sleet, and where the bark is gone it is smooth as silky skin. The scent calls me to breathe in with a yearning for its embrace and I sigh, feeling its spirit fold more fully around me. Together we watch the night closing in. “Ywena,” I whisper, “what of this day?” and my words melt into the twilight as had the sleet into the darkness of the muddy ground a short while ago.

  The soft shlip of a paddle draws me to lift my eyes. A shepherd boy is slipping by in his flat bottomed boat, the bleat of a tiny lamb wrapped tight in the folds of his cloak. From his silhouette, I think him the son of Defydd, and in the old family boat standing behind the young lad is the form of his father, dead more than ten winters now, and from his song I know him well, the shimmering of his music seeping into the marshes that were his home. I remember the day he died, in some other futile skirmish, and I can hear still the women’s grief that was cried out over the fields of bloodshed, that was offered with such rage and tenderness to the gods. His wife was six moons grown with her first child. She called him Llafn, hoping the sharpness of his name would keep him safe, and indeed now the boy’s boat does cut through the water with the silence of a knife.

  He won’t look this way. There is nothing upon this island they call Ynys y Cysgodion, that brings comfort to the soul. A place of shadows and gnarled ancient yews, and they half hidden in the robes of the thickly tangled forest, veiled and dripping with ferns and moss, which in turn hides the tomb barrows of the ancient dead. I don’t believe a mortal soul has trod upon this dark-clothed tump of an isle for many a generation, except myself and the few who take care of my needs. In the villages, ever seething with superstition and tattle-talk, what or who they think we are differs from hearth to hearth. Rumour has it that I am the daemon mother of all marsh-widows, or the washer of slain men’s garb, the gatherer of the dead. Those who attend me are dangerous rage-sprites who, dressed as pretty maidens, draw young men into otherworlds of enchantment and eternal yearning.

  When someone is desperately ill, or a plague sickness is brewing, or fighting has surged beyond the people’s reason, when the local healer or seer is wise enough to admit the state is beyond her knowing, a priestess is called out from the isle across the water where my work is done, Ynys y Niwl, an isle most often draped in mist, where my community of priestesses and seers make their home. But the messenger comes with curiosity drenched in apprehension. As a child, hidden in an old yew near y Ffynnon Goch, I would watch these strangers from the world outside. Having fought through the hungry marshes, seeking the elusive streams of flowing water, finding their way to the grassy slopes of Ynys y Niwl, they would scurry for the healing springs, unwilling to look around, hoping there to meet a priestess, or maid of the community who would carry a message to some soul who would help, someone who could unknot the ravelled threads and bring ease, someone who could see what others could not or did not want to see.

  Only now and then do I go myself into the world, on days like today, when even those whom I hoped had more common sense are speaking of the sky falling down upon their cowering heads. Increasingly I find such journeys deeply wearying, for the world beyond my haven of islands is complicated with the fear and hunger that provokes human violence. In my mother’s day, the druids worked for the people, keeping some order with the wisdom of their ancestral line, but too often now the local druid is tied up in tribal politics, and his own self importance. His own hand in play, he is now a part of the games of power. He helps no one.

  Little bats dart out over the water, breaking their day’s fast in the twilight.

  Leaning on both staff and branch, feeling the old tree spirit rise beside me, slowly I find my feet and the cold night air. The faint clink of iron touches my ears through the trees. One of the girls is preparing the evening’s broth that will warm my blood and bones, the other setting the prayer that will silently call me home to eat, but before then I know I must again seek counsel, and this night, with no moon, I am called to the barrow. I leave a kiss upon the yew wood, so grateful for its song that hums within and around me, and I turn to walk away.

  Finding a path through the hazel, elder and thorn beneath the high trees, I sense the frailty of all that holds intact the structure of time. Stories tell that this land was dry when such tombs were crafted, and c
onsidering where they lie in this landscape of marsh and lake, on the edge of the western seas, I can see how that could be. As if moving through cobwebs, as my hands reach to steady the tread of my feet, I can’t help but tear threads, and as I do so the forest slips away and for a moment I am striding up the sunlit meadows of this same hill, as I have done many times before, making my way with a deep-rooted pride to the tomb barrows of my people. Yet when I reach the clearing, it is in winter’s darkness and, instead of pride, I taste fear. A sadness hums in my belly for all that has been lost, and all that will be lost in the years to come.

  And the prayers surface in me like the rising of the lower stars, they that journey along the horizon before slipping back into the otherworld, songs I have heard every day throughout my life, songs that tremble with grief and love and wonder, curling up like smoke to drift in the wind. Ancestors, I sing, in my breath I breathe your breath ...

  Built of great stones, set with mud and turf, some forty steps long, some upon this hill are still secure, sealed as they have been for more cycles than can be measured. Not even the young ruffians of the settlements around the lakes, too eager for the thrill of fighting, dare to disturb such places, so thick are they still with power and presence. That this one is partly opened only adds to the fear of my little isle. The huge slab of stone that closed it, having sunk a little into the sodden ground, leaves a gaping mouth, large enough for a creature of slight build to clamber through. Or an old woman. With my song lingering in the evening air, I make the prayers of honour and climb over the broken stone, crawling into the breathless dark of the low mud passage.

  ~~~~~

  Around the fire, I sit on layers of fleecy sheep hide, wrapped in the furs that will cover me when I turn to sleep. Gwenlli fusses for a moment, making sure that I am warm. She uses no words but to me it sounds like chatter, and I meet her eyes. She lowers her head, softly clasping her hands before her. I will leave you, she whispers silently.

  I bow and she tiptoes out, and I hear the gentle murmuring of her voice as she joins Creyr in the other round reed-woven hut that completes our homestead. Lifting tea to my lips, I watch a moth dance around the fire light, and let my mind drift to the pathways of the done day.

  Tales heard at my mother’s feet seep from darkness into memory, stories of the quiet hook-nosed warlord of Roma who, in the time of my grandmother, had conquered a thousand tribes and ruled fiercely the greater part of the vast landmass that stretches beyond the southern sea. The stories told how this man had gathered an army of many thousands with the intention of taking for himself every one of these Brythannic isles, but on the invocations of the priests the sky gods stirred up the wind, and with the gods of the seas and those of the shore, his fleet of invaders was broken to tatters.

  His successors still rule the land beyond the sea, within what is called the empire of Roma, and though some tribes do rise up to regain their freedom, it is said that none succeed. Traders and saphers speak of it as a world set quite apart from this, a world where many don’t fight the conquerers but willingly cede their lands, in exchange for promises of peace and wealth. And indeed, they say, it is a different life that is led across the southern waters. Some say it is easier, displaying their jewellery of amber and gold as if that were proof of serenity, goods traded with the empire in Gaul and beyond.

  Pouring water from the jug, I drink, and run my fingers around the smooth edge of the bowl. A new breed of traders are now to be found at the markets of Llynwen and Pentreflyn, not local folk of the Durotrigians, but travelers who bring sharp tongues and foreign coins, selling delicate cups, fine glass, gems and cloth, and dreams. They speak of a new trench road being built, not half a day’s walk from here, a track that will run from the sea coast in the south west across the land to the eastern sea, some ten days ride. They are calling it the Ffos Fordd.

  I am afraid of this empire. My visions show me our lands overrun by lines of broken men given a wage to fight, like a plague of ants pouring over the meadows and seething through the forests. And when I am told that tribal kings to the east have welcomed Romans onto Brythannic shores, my fear further grows. For this time, priests were not called to invoke the gods for protection. This time, with their human greed, the tribal guardians simply sold their rights for their own personal gain. So has the greatest betrayal been wrought upon the Brythannic lands and her people.

  Two winters have passed since the first Roman force stepped upon the islands’ shores and my fear still grows. And all day, today, I have spent in the gathering halls by Llw Ffynnon, the deep wells shared by oaths of allegiance to the north of here, speaking with tribal chiefs and druids. The fighting up on the Bryniau’r Mendydd has taken the lives of six more young men; it was their names I called as the sun touched the grey canopy of High Bredd to the south west, aiding their journey over the waters to the lands of the dead. Yet still their people squabble with blades as ancestral vows are broken, rights are eroded, the land dishonoured. And each one believes that if the lead and silver mines were their own, trading these metals with the empire over the seas would bring them enough wealth to secure their own self-governance. I sat in the halls as each voice rose in the clamour of desperation, frenzied as clipped hens trying to take to the air.

  Rumours, confirmed by the colours of my visions, were confirmed again by a son of Castell Coel, returning from travelling east through the winter. A new warlord of the empire, known as Vespessian, is coming with an army like ants devouring, plundering his course over the southern lands of the Durotriges. At each of the ancient caer towns, with fire and iron he destroys until the fort is surrendered, and the town given to him. Heading for the rich mines of Cornualle and the Mendydd, when he arrives he will take the land and all its wealth as his own.

  Yet our people fight each other, boys killing with the rage of fear.

  ~~~~~

  The fire is growing low with my thoughtfulness and I push myself onto my feet to gather a handful of wood from the pile by the door. Lifting the covers aside, I look out into the peaceful night of our small forest clearing, and up into the winter-black starry skies. A song rises in my heart, prayers of wonder and thanksgiving, and as I open my soul to the darkness of her presence, the sweet black water of certainty seeps into my body. It is a night without moonlight and I whisper the names of the stars as my grandmothers and theirs have ever done. Tomorrow at dawn, after welcoming the light and breaking the night’s fast, I must go to Ynys y Niwl, to the sanctuaries of vision, and find just what this certainty is that flows through such chaotic change.

  A tiny moth alights on a burning log too hot for its feet. Yet as I guide it gently away, I am acutely aware of myself with a broad humility. For here by the fire, I know too of some other change breaking over the world, yet I do not know what it is. As if standing in the forest, after the final blow of the axe has been driven into the tallest tree, I know the crashing destruction will come. But I do not know where or when.

  In the barrow, I sought vision and guidance from the dead. Drawn through the web of lives, sacred thread to sacred thread, a face came to me out of the gloom. It was that of a tin trader of the land of Cornualle, his skin nut-brown, his ancestry of Iuddic blood from the far eastern reaches of Roman law. We have met before. And in remembering his face it was as if a door opened once again in my soul, yet through that doorway I saw nothing.

  It was very many cycles ago. He brought with him, to Ynys y Niwl, a young man whom I believe was his sister’s grandchild, a lad with a beard still soft and deep clear searching eyes. He intrigued me, this young man, for he left traces of energy in the air, as if his soul were heavier than his body, weighed down with an ancient grief with which I felt a deep empathy. He was clearly a seer.

  In the barrow I saw this young man dying. His beard rough, his eyes older, his hair wild as that of a man who has lost the ability to understand, and with his arms outstretched, he cried out to his gods in soulful desolation. I searched for more, not clear why the image was giv
en me, seeking whether those who took his life were of his own Iuddic people or men of the Roman power, but the most surety came from that sense of the tree falling. His death had somehow been the last blow of the axe.

  It will take a while for the ripples to reach us, but they will.

  And I wonder when the tin trader will appear again on Ynys y Niwl, waiting by the springs, for I now feel sure he will. I forget his name.

  I stand again, too restless to be still, my soul heavy with a powerful sadness I do not wish to feel, and pulling on my hide boots, gathering the fur rugs about my shoulders, I wander out into the night. A little way from the old yew, whispering of star light and the gathering clouds, I drag one of our flat bottomed boats into the water. Using a long hazel staff to push off against the mud, I set myself afloat.

  With just the shlip of the paddle breaking the quiet of the night, I follow the silent songs of the streams that wind their tangled narrow routes through the marsh, and before long my craft spills out onto the wide open and shimmering darkness of the lake known as Llyntywyll.

  An owl calls and, letting go my human vision of the past and the future, releasing my soul into the cold stillness of now, I murmur my reply, and I am here, I am here, and all is well ... Then there is silence, the silence of the winter forest, and the hush of a cold breeze moving through the reeds.

  Pulling the furs about me, lying down in the bottom of the boat, feeling it rock softly on the swell and my movement, I close my eyes and breathe out until there is nothing left in my body. And in that darkness and quiet, I make my prayers, opening my soul ... my lady, my lady ... black water, ancient memory ...