“Sleep, my child, sleep. I will keep you warm.” And Vivian lay down beside her daughter, covering them both with a blanket she had brought from the marsh boat. Slowly dusk gathered over Ynys Groth Ddraig. Night insects began to sing in the trees as though the trees themselves were singing, and ancestors of the marshes gathered around the sleeping women, as bright stars wheeled across the sky.
~
The sun had risen high above the horizon when Annwyl opened her eyes, rubbing them against the bright day. Vivian was sitting before her, holding out a piece of the barley bread, and some warm tea.
“Good morning, little sleeper,” Vivian laughed. “I was afraid you had decided to join the spirits and dance away!”
Annwyl was hungry. She ate all the bread, and drank most of her tea, before she spoke.
“What happened, Mam? Well, I know what happened, but what did it mean?” She was still a child, but there was a wisdom in her face that had not been there the day before. Vivian reached out and drew her daughter close against her breast; kissed the top of her head.
“The Dragon’s Womb is the cauldron of life, Little One,” she said. “It is the gathering place of goddesses, and the birthing place of living things. In its waters you have learned not only what it feels like to live, but how it feels to give life, and what it means to be life itself. Such is my task as Lady of the marshes. Such will, one day, be your task as well.”
Suddenly in Vivian’s hands was a cup, made of gourd and highly polished so that it shone brightly in the sun. She rose and held the cup in the flow of water that emerged from the Dragon’s Womb, then lifted it high and uttered a prayer in ancient words that Annwyl did not understand except for the last, y Groth Ddraig. Then Vivian came to her, and, knowing in her heart, she rose to her knees in the soft grass. Murmuring other ancient words, Vivian poured out the cool water over her daughter’s head, and handed her the cup.
“It has been emptied, but it is not empty,” the Lady said, “for such cups, when blessed and filled with power, are never empty again. This is your soul cup. It bears the power of your life even as you do in your own body, and its future is bound up with yours.” She gave Annwyl a cloth of soft white wool. “Wrap it in this cloth and keep it safe, Child, for you will use it as Lady when at last I am gone.”
Annwyl did as she was told. With every movement of her hands there appeared more wisdom in her eyes, more strength in her posture. When at last all was done, the two women walked hand and hand back to the marsh boat, and set out into the waters of Sweetwater Marsh.
The journey home was a strange one for Annwyl, for it seemed to her she had never seen the marshes before. A dragonfly lighted on the bow of the boat, shining brightly with iridescent blues and greens. She knew it to be the very one she had seen the day before, and she knew its name.
“Blessings of the day to you, Ddraig Athar,” she said with a smile. The dragonfly circled once around her head, then landed on her shoulder. In a small voice, barely heard about the soft hiss of the reeds against the sides of the boat, it replied,
“Blessings of the marshes, my Lady.” And off it flew, leaving Annwyl to wonder at what the world had become. ~
In time Vivian did leave this world, seeking the abode of her ancestors. Annwyl became Lady in her place, taking, in her turn, the name of Vivian. It was in the day of Annwyl’s own great granddaughter that the Derwyddon came to the marshes of Affalon, bringing with them their own magic, and the skill of transforming sand and cobalt into the deep, glowing wonder of blue glass. In those days it was such glass that was used to craft the Lady’s cup, ever after called the Cup of Enaid Las. With the same glass was the Dragon’s Womb lined, casting its deep blue glow upon the surrounding oaks. But always the Derwyddon knew the magic of y Groth Ddraig Las was older and deeper than theirs, and they went there never. It was Annwyl’s great granddaughter who told her own granddaughter,
“We have always known the gods are everywhere, Child, and one day the Cup of Enaid Las will travel to far worlds, and work wonders that no one can imagine.”
But that tale waits for another time, and another day.
Chapter Twenty A Return to Affalon
Three nights of heavy frost passed before Fianna was ready to leave Llan y gelli. Need to wait for the dark of the moon required five nights more, for crossing the wide mouth of the Hafren without complete darkness. warriors with her, but she had asked for Cethin, preferring an escort who would keep her out of a fight rather than get her into one. They left late in the afternoon on the first day of the moon’s darkness, following the ravine of the Nantmeal creek downhill toward the coastal plain.
They were dressed in woolen cloaks of brown and forest green, protection against discovery as well as weather. Though he hoped dearly not to use it, Cethin carried his old sword, newly reworked after years of neglect. For the first time since her attack, Fianna bore the short, secret dagger of a priestess in the folds of her cloak. Such precautions were not taken lightly, for three real dangers lay ahead of them. If they were discovered leaving Silure lands, they could be taken for spies or, worse, assassins. As they neared the Mendydds, traveling alone, they risked being impressed as slave labor for the lead mines. Most troubling, Fianna had been in a fight where a Roman soldier had been killed. She remembered the terrible moment when, dropping her hood, she had looked directly into the face of one of the soldiers before she felt the bite of his sword. He would not likely have forgotten her face. True, she had been left for dead with the others, but Romans left little to chance. The incident was not that long ago, and she might be recognized. That would mean death for them both.
Except for spare clothing, they carried no provisions. This first part of the journey was through Silure territory, so they relaxed, enjoying the autumn scenery, before nightfall and being seen by Roman patrols required Cadael had offered to send two of his their arrival at Porth-is-coedd, the tribal hillfort on the north bank of the Hafren estuary.
“I would like to have seen the place where they died one more time,” said Fianna, “But we are already late. Sianed came to me in my mind last night. They have now closed the mists around Ynys y Niwl. I will have to call for a guide to enter.”
“I fear you have waited this long on my account, Mother,” Cethin answered.
Fianna smiled. “Yes, on your account, Healer,” she said. “Is that such a bad thing? But we may charge the delay also to the wide world, for all will gain from your knowledge of the Marsh Tales.” And so she eased his mind somewhat. It was past the season for birdsong, but wood thrushes and blackbirds called to them along their leaf covered path.
The fort at Porth-is-coedd had been advised of their approach, and sentries were watching for them. They were welcomed inside and given a hot meal, after which they sat at a wide table with one of the scouts, studying a cowhide map.
“Just down below the fort here,” he indicated a spot on the north bank west of the hillfort, “there is a small skiff tied and waiting for you. When we get to the boat, I will show you how to find y Aberafon, here,” and he pointed to the mouth of a small river entering the Hafren on its south bank. “There you will receive provisions for a three day journey, and enough, Cethin, to get you started back. It is a two day walk along the coast, around the flank of the Mendydds, to Llecychod. There you will be given a flatboat for the final part of the journey into the marshes. Here,” he pointed to a star just north of Ynys Calchfaen, “is the lake village of Pentreflyn, where you will part company. We believe the village may now be deserted, but we are not sure.”
Cethin was still studying the route around the west flank of Bryniau’r Mendydd. “The hills are garrisoned with Roman units, are they not?” he asked. “I have heard they now operate the mines.”
“True,” the scout said, “but their supply lines are eastward. They are not interested in the western shores. Still, the most dangerous part of the route will be here,” he pointed to western flank the Byniau’r Mendydd. “But with luck you will pass uns
een, traveling at night.”
Cethin rolled the map and slipped it into a woven bag slung over his left shoulder. He looked up at Fianna.
“Well, Mother, are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes, it is past time to go,” Fianna answered. ~
It was pitch black on the wooded bank as the scout led them to their boat, hidden in the reeds on the river’s edge. The south bank, far off, could just be seen against the night stars. They followed the pointing of his finger as he swept it westward to where a dip in the treeline indicated the location of a tributary.
“That notch is the marker for y Aberafon, where the Afon empties into the Hafren. of any lights that may appear. area, a Dubh-bunadh raiding party will be waiting nearby with your food and water. Luck and the gods be with you both.”
Cethin and Fianna settled themselves in the small boat, he in back, she in the bow. They pushed off from the bank and, swinging the craft around, began to paddle southwesterly for the Afon mouth on the far shore. They encountered a light chop as they moved out into deeper waters, and a strong current. The crossing was not great in distance, something over three leagues, but though it might have been walked on land in a little over three hours, the journey by boat across the Hafren would take longer. Not only would they be fighting currents and rough water, but they had to move quietly as possible, so their paddles would not be heard, nor their wake seen in the starlight. For a long time they kept complete silence, both lost in their own thoughts about what lay ahead. Several times Cethin saw lights in the darkness, seeming to flicker through the trees as they paddled in on diagonal toward the shore. Whether the lights were tribal huts or Roman campfires he could not know. Make straight for it, regardless There will be Romans in the Do not follow the lights, he thought, remembering the tale of the Ellylldan. Roman soldiers were likely more dangerous than marsh spirits, he supposed.
It was cold and damp out on the water. Though the sky above them was clear with the Hunter rising in the east, a wide fog bank hung off to the west, coming in from the sea. A heavy fog would be helpful once they were on land again, but if it arrived before they reached shore they would lose sight of the gap in the trees that marked y Aberafon.
To avoid thinking about what Romans might lay across their path ahead, Cethin turned the Marsh Tales over and over in his thoughts, the ancient wisdom of Affalon that Fianna had entrusted to his keeping. If all went well they would soon be in those marshes, would soon see places that as yet lived only in the corners of his mind.
“Will we see Bryn Llyffaint when we set out from Llecychod?” he asked quietly, breaking their silence.
Will we even get to Llecychod? Fianna wondered. “We will,” she said, “If the night is quite clear. There will only be the first curve of the new moon, and that will already have set.”
It took much of the night to cross the Hafren. But it was still dark, and the fog had not yet set in as they steered toward y Aberafon and swung in to shore. Immediately they were met by four silent men, dressed in tribal clothing. Cethin recognized them as Dubh-bunadh. Before he could greet them, the leader raised a finger to his lips, demanding silence. They were led some ways into the forest, and crowded into a small outcropping of rock that was nearly like a cave, before their new guide spoke.
“Welcome to Dubh-bunadh lands,” he said, clasping both their hands in greeting. “Though now there are Romans everywhere, especially in the hills. I am Bryn”
“It is good to find you here,” said Cethin. “I am Cethin, Healer to Cadael of the Silures at Llan y gelli. Also Dubhbunadh,” he emphasized. “This is Fianna, priestess of Affalon.”
Bryn nodded his head in a simple bow. “Mother,” he said, “It is an honour to serve you.” Fianna nodded in response, keeping silent, and the guide turned again to Cethin.
“You will stay the day here,” he said. It is not comfortable, but it is reasonably safe. We will post sentries to watch for any Roman patrols, though they are not active here at the moment. The most dangerous time will come two nights from now as you pass the flank of the Medydds. There are furs here for sleeping, and food and water in backpacks for the journey.” As silently as they had appeared, the men dissolved into the night, leaving Fianna and Cethin alone in the cave.
“I suppose the first thing is rest,” Cethin said, handing Fianna a covering.
Wrapped in furs, and huddled together for warmth at the back of the cave, the two travelers drifted to sleep as a wall of thick fog covered the rising of the sun.
~
It was late afternoon when Fianna awoke. She rose, and stood at the opening of the cave, seeing for the first time it was indeed only a shallow outcropping in a low cliff. Remnants of the morning fog still drifted through the trees. She could smell the Hafren waters, though she was too far inland to see them. A quiet sound behind her was Cethin stirring, searching through their packs of provisions.
“Dried meat,” he said. “Mutton, I think. Barley bread, and a few apples. Four water skins and, yes, some mead.”
“You are welcome to keep the meat and mead to yourself,” said Fianna. “But it looks as though we will have enough to see us through.”
They shared a light meal, waiting in the outcropping for nightfall.
“The blue cup in the last tale,” Cethin asked while they ate, “That is not the cup from the story of Vivian and Eosaidh, is it?”
“No, it is not,” said Fianna. “There have been many such cups, and there will likely one day be more. But the cup in the tale was the first, made to represent the natural formation of the Dragon’s Womb. They were made by the Druid Fferyllt, far to the north on the flanks of yr Wyddfa, but they were conceived, and filled with marsh magic on Ynys Groth Ddraig. They held the power of living and of dying, and were bound to those for whom they were made.”
As the sun set and darkness settled over the Dubhbunadh forest, Fianna told him the tale of Vivian and Eosaidh, and the last cup of Enaid Las. How it held the lives of her dead son, and his dead nephew, and how the latter, in a dry desert far away to the east, had held it high after a meal and changed the world.
“His followers did not understand him,” she said. “They thought he was a god. It is men and women who change the world, Cethin, not gods. Remember that. They came to stay on Ynys y Niwl even before the Romans. And today, so I hear, near the place where Eosaidh’s hut stood there is a temple to that new god, the dead nephew of a tinner from Cornualle.”
“On Ynys y Niwl?” asked Cethin, in disbelief.
“Not so they can find the priestess community,” said Fianna. “Glyn y Ffynhonnau and the sacred well are hidden from them forever by the mist. When at last we come upon it you will see the island and the temple they have built. But the island you will see is called now Ynys Witrin. Niwl you shall never see, nor shall I again, if I cannot draw the mists and call the boat.”
Fianna’s face turned from him, and her eyes journeyed far away. He dared not ask another question.
When it was fully dark they packed their things and set off to the southwest, staying just inside the eaves of the forest but keeping sight of the shore. It was not the straightest route to Llecychod, but it would keep them from wandering into the Roman held Mendydds. Aside from bogs, briars, and low hanging branches, all unseen in the blackness, it was an uneventful night. Near dawn they arrived at their halfway point, the mouth of the river Tyllwyll. Going inland a bit, upstream, they came to a thicket that would keep them hidden through the day while they slept. Cethin dreamed they were surrounded by Roman soldiers, shouting battle cries as they approached, running through the trees. He awoke with a start to the cries of ravens, and quickly fell back into a fitful sleep. ~
Travel on the second night was longer, nearly seven leagues. They decided to use the coastal road, out from under the cover of the forest, even though this increased the possibility of meeting a Roman patrol.
“Roman occupation has been settled here for some time,” Cethin assured Fianna. Unlike the Silures, most of my
tribe has made a reluctant peace with them. If we meet soldiers on the road, perhaps we may say we are Dubh-bunadh farmers on our way home to Llecychod.”
“I think they would not believe I am your wife,” said Fianna. “I am nearly old enough to be Mother to you in fact as well as in spirit.”
“Fortunately a priestess of Affalon looks ageless,” Cethin answered with a smile, “and a Dubh-bunadh who once fought Romans looks older than his time.”
They walked on in silence for many paces before Fianna said,
“Perhaps. We shall see. And how will you explain that sword?”
Cethin fingered the sword hilt hanging at his waist. It might have been needed closer to Silure lands, but the farther south they went the more its possession was a danger in itself. A farmer and his wife walking home in the middle of the night would not be carrying a polished and honed sword. They stopped near a copse of alders while he took a spare tunic from his pack and used it to carefully wrap the weapon. Then he climbed one of the trees and fastened the bundle high in the upper branches.
“I shall likely come back this way,” he said as they set off again, “and then it may be needful” It was a strange feeling that came over him, for though he preferred not to be armed, he found he missed the weight of the weapon hanging at his side.
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