Tales of Avalon

by Walter William Melnyk

  “There is more of Druid in you than it is healthy to admit,” I chastise him.

  “Even so,” he says, “it matters.”

  There are other apprentices and other healers in the hills. Perhaps, indeed, Arius should come with me. I have lived in this world more than sixty summers, I think, and always I have been alone. It would be good to have a companion. I gesture to Arius and he gathers the herbs, returning him to the leather bag.

  “How much of the Tales do you know?” I ask. I have told them all to him many times, but we have never worked at memorizing.

  “A small rounded hillock still rises out of the mists to the west of Bryn Fyrtwyddon . . .” he begins. Sometime later when he finishes, gently singing “Daughter of chieftains, bride of the fens, come back to your home once more,” I am speechless with amazement.

  “Do not be overly surprised if someone believes you when you tell him it does matter,” he says quietly. And I realize it is at this moment that Arius’ apprenticeship has turned from herbalist to bard.

  “The world is changing,” I tell him. There are some who will not listen to the Tales. Some who do will call them mere children’s stories and mock you for it. Some will fear the old wisdom greatly, thinking it a threat to their new ways of understanding things. It will not be an easy life, being a teller of Marsh Tales.”

  He looks deep into my eyes, and I see in his a calling that will not be denied.

  “True enough,” he says, “but there are some who will know in their hearts the truth of what they hear, and that will change their world yet again. And some there are who will tell others.”

  I stand, and he with me.

  “Come,” I say, “you will eat with me this evening, and then your learning will begin. On the way I have a new story to tell you. I did not learn it from Fianna in the old days. It came to me one night, not long ago. Where it comes from, or who first told it, I know not. But it is the last of the Marsh Tales.”

  Together we reach the crest of the bluff, and head down to the village of Prydde, spread before us in the afternoon sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Two XIII. The Last Tale

  Once, when first the tribes found their several ways into the wide marshes, a young girl of eleven summers sat looking into the darkness. She was Aelwyd, daughter of Broga of the Dumnoni, who was chief of the hillfort built on the crest of Bryn Llyffaint. Aelwyd sat on the eastern ramparts of the fort, high on the hill, in the warmth of a late summer night, looking east across the open waters, toward the dark marshes and the hills beyond. Bryn Llyffaint lay at the boundary where the open waters of the marshes met those of the endless sea, and it was surrounded by the dense sedge and reeds of a narrow salt marsh. So the night, though dark, was far from silent. Nightsongs rose to her ears from the reeds and wooded hillside below, from bog and bush crickets, and other insects she could not name. Now and then she thought she heard a frog, perhaps because of the full moon rising nearly overhead. Usually the frogs of the island sang only during the mating season of gwanwyn, but a bright moon and a warm night could encourage them at any time. That night, the moon sparkled upon the marsh waters, lighting a pathway to the shore of Llyffaint just below her, and bathing the far hills in a soft glow.

  Her eyes rose to the long, low line of hills that began just across the narrows and trailed away eastward out of her sight, the Bryniau’r Mendydd. Along the crest of the hills she could see an array of lights, like a dotted line strung in the darkness. Brighter and seeming to sparkle they were, nearby; becoming dimmer as distance increased. They were fires, she knew, campfires of tribal settlements along the ridge. Though she could not see them in the distant dark, there were people around those lights, or perhaps sleeping in circling huts. Those nearer were Dumnoni, like herself. She had friends whose families had gone to live in the Mendydds, and cousins who came to visit occasionally from the hills. Farther along the ridgeline were the camps of people she did not know, the Dubhbunadh, the dark people whose swarthy appearance spoke of distant origins. She had never met one, but her imagination caused her to shudder as she stared at the far lights.

  The two tribes faced each other across a great gorge in the hills which split the Bryniau’r Mendydd into two territories, with Dumnoni in the west and Dubh-bunadh in the east. They were there, Aelwyd’s father had told her, because of a strange bright metal in the earth called arian that shone like the face of the moon. She held up a small disc that hung by a cord from her neck, and it flashed in the moonlight. It was a beautiful metal, much treasured, that brought great wealth. Arian was taken with great skill and difficulty from a heavier metal her father called plwm, which was dug from the surface of the ground in long furrows. This heavier metal was of little use to the tribes, as she understood things, but traders from the east paid well for it. Aelwyd’s eyes found the darkness on the ridge, in the middle of the line of campfires, that was the gorge. There, she knew, was the site of sporadic but bloody fighting as the Dumnoni sought to move eastward, and the Dubh-bunadh strove toward the west, each seeking a greater share of the Mendydd mines.

  “Aelwyd, it is late, come to bed,” came a voice behind her.

  “In a moment, Mam,” she answered, “the night is so beautiful!” She loved the night, and her mother had long since given up trying to get her to bed early.

  Her eyes fell upon one of the nearer Dumnoni fires, and she wondered whether anyone known to her sat around it. Its twinkling, she knew, was the crackling and dancing of flames too far off to see. As she watched, her gaze became fixed and her eyes gradually lost their focus. Her sense of her own body faded, and her mind reached out over the marshes, across the dark rise of Ynys Mawr, to the campfire burning brightly on a Mendydd hilltop. From the high treetops she looked down upon the circle of the camp, a large bonfire with men and some women sitting around it, and a ring of small huts just at the edge of the trees. And then she was seated before the fire, feeling its warmth upon her face, watching sparks fly upward into the night sky. No one around the fire seemed to notice her, but she could see their faces clearly, and hear their speech.

  They spoke of another hard day at the mine, of a birthday coming up, of a marriage feast just past. They spoke of children sleeping in the circling huts, of hopes for the future, and of fears. They talked of loving, as two or three couples rose and disappeared into the shadows. Aelwyd felt the warmth of the little community that was owed to something other than the bonfire, and she smiled, for these were her people, just like the gatherings of her own family within the palisades of Bryn Llyffaint. She sat for a long time, listening to tales and songs, until most around the fire had risen and gone to their huts. Finally the scene around her began to fade, and in the darkness she felt herself being pulled back across the marshes.

  When her sight returned, she was sitting again on the ramparts of Bryn Llyffaint. The moon had begun to descend toward the west and the nightsong of the insects had grown quieter. She looked over her shoulder toward her family’s roundhouse and saw that it was dark. She laughed softly, knowing her mother had finally given up on enticing her to bed. It was not strange, for she loved the night, and her mother left her to it. Just then a quiet voice spoke inside her.

  “Aelwyd,” it said, “there are other campfires.” She had never heard the voice before, waking or sleeping. It was the voice of a woman, and it sounded like the flowing waters of the marsh. She looked around to see from whence it came, but no one stirred within the moonlit confines of the ramparts, save for herself.

  “Aelwyd,” came the soft voice again, “the Dubh-bunadh sit around fires as well.”

  Aelwyd looked down the ridge of the Mendydds to where the Dubh-bunadh fires burned, and again she shuddered, a cold chill going down her back even in the warmth of the night. She had never met one, but she knew what they were like. She hated and feared them, for they were killers of her people. Who was this strange person whose voice spoke to her of the Dubh-bunadh?

  “Who are you, my Lady?” she asked into the night. “W
hy can I not see you? What do you want of me?”

  There was no answering sound but for the rustle of wind and the song of crickets. And then the silent voice inside that spoke again, saying,

  “There are other campfires to visit, daughter. There are other people.”

  Aelwyd turned and looked toward the dim lights at the far end of the hills. Her eyes fell upon one and, dim as it was, she saw that it, too, sparkled with the crackle and dance of flame. Once again her eyes lost their focus, and her body seemed to fade. Her mind reached out over the eastern tip of Ynys Mawr, over the shadowy marshes that people called Cysgodion, to a hilltop in the eastern ridges of the Mendydds.

  From the high treetops she looked down upon the circle of a camp, a large bonfire with men and women sitting around it, and a ring of small huts just at the edge of the trees. And then she was seated before the fire, feeling its warmth upon her face, watching sparks fly upward into the night sky. No one around the fire seemed to notice her, but she could see their faces, and hear their speech. Their faces were different, yet clearly they were people with feelings like hers.

  They spoke of another hard day at the mine, of a birthday coming up, of a marriage feast just past. They spoke of children sleeping in the circling huts, of hopes for the future, and of fears. They talked of loving, as two or three couples rose and disappeared into the shadows. Aelwyd felt the warmth of the little community that was owed to something other than the bonfire, and she smiled, for these were, no, not her people, but it seemed just like the gatherings of her own family within the palisades of Bryn Llyffaint. She sat for a long time, listening to tales and songs, until most around the fire had risen and gone to their huts. Finally the scene around her began to fade, and in the darkness she felt marshes.

  When at last Aelwyd sat again upon the ramparts of Bryn Llyffaint in the dark of the night before the coming of dawn.

  “What have you learned, daughter?” the voice within her asked.

  It was long moments before Aelwyd replied, for she was puzzled and amazed at what she had seen. Tribes that fought to the death over rights to the silvery arian were both made of people with the same hopes and dreams, the same loves, fears, wishes and joys.

  “I have learned, Lady,” she said at last, “that there are indeed many campfires. And that the folk who sit around them are more alike than they are different.”

  “You have learned well, daughter,” the voice said. “When you have learned what that truly means, perhaps one day you will join us in Cysgodion.” Then the sense of presence was gone, and Aelwyd sat alone under the stars.

  She looked up, gazing at the lights twinkling across the night sky, picking out the pictures they formed in the dark expanse; Telyn, the harp; yr Haeddel fawr, the great plough; Llys Don, the palace of the ancient goddess; Alarch, the swan; Eryr, the eagle; Rhyfelwr, the warrior. And arching through them all, the broad, milky cow’s path, Llwber Llaethog. As she looked, Aelwyd saw for the first time that they twinkled. Twinkled like the fires on Bryniau’r Mendydd.

  “What if,” she said into the deep sky, “what if they are all campfires, with people like me sitting around them, telling tales?”

  She wished to send her mind out among them. But there were too many to let her gaze fall upon only one, and the gulf between was too great. Try as she might, she found her mind only floating in deep darkness, with the sky fires still tiny points herself being pulled back across the

  the awareness of her body returned, in the great distance.

  “So far,” she breathed aloud, “so far away I cannot hope to go to them, or meet the tribes who sit around their glow.” She sat in silence for long moments, as morning light crept into the sky, and the fires twinkled out, as above, so below.

  Compared to the tribes who travel yr Llwyber Llaethog across the broad sky, she thought, the people of the Dubhbunadh are my neighbors. She paused then in deep thought. No, not neighbors, she realized, but kin, my sisters and my brothers.

  As she thought this, the morning sun rose slowly over the eastern marshes, and the world welcomed a new dawn.

  ~

  Here end the thirteen Marsh Tales,

  the ancient Wisdom of Affalon.

  GLOSSARY and PRONUNCIATION

  Many of the names in this book are based, sometimes only loosely, upon modern Welsh, to give a sense of the ancient while remaining accessible to modern readers. Proper names with mythological significance in the Tales are included in the glossary. Words or names in chapters nine and thirteen that are unknown to the protagonists are not included, and thus unknown also to the reader. Some place names (e.g. Pwysi) are puns on the names of modern places. Pronunciation notes are a guide only, and not intended to be a full explanation of Welsh pronunciation. Use your own intuition with confidence.

  Consonants

  c Always as in "cow" (even before e, i and y) ch As in Scottish "loch" (guttural "kh"-type sound) dd Like "th" in English "the", never as in "think" f Like English "v"

  ff Like English "f"

  ll Put your tongue in the position for "L" and blow out. mh Like it looks; not as hard as it sounds, since it almost

  always occurs after a vowel. Split it between two syllables if you like.

  ngh Sort of like "mh"; split it into ng-h.

  nh Similar to "mh".

  r Trilled with the tongue-tip.

  rh Like "r", followed by an aspiration of breath (h).

  s As in English, though "si" is pronounced as in English "sh",

  th Like "th" in English "thug", never as in "this".

  Vowels a As in English "can" (short) or "father", (long) e As in "let" (short) or "late" (long) no "eee" sound at the end of the vowel.

  i As in "pit" (short) or "lean" (long).

  o As in "lot" (short) or "coat" (long) no "ooo" sound at the end of the vowel.

  u Completely equivalent to "i" (long or short) w As in "put" (short) or "soon" (long), can be either a vowel or consonant

  y like the vowel written "u", can be long or short. Long when standing alone.

  ae, ae, au ei, eu, ei aw

  ew

  iw, uw

  ow

  oe, oy, oi wy

  "wee" if

  Dipthongs

  Long "a" followed by long "I" (ah-ee) "e" in Mother, followed by "ee" sound (eh-ee) like "ow" in "now"

  like "e" in "get" followed by "oo" (eh-oo) like "ew" in "hew" but emphasis on first rather than last sound

  as in "home" including a trailing "oo" sound like "oy" in "boy"

  "oo-ee" if w is vowel and y is consonant; or

  w is consonantal and y is a vowel (e.g. Gw+ydd, GOOH-eethe = Goose; or Gwy+dd, GWEETHE = Trees)

  Aberafon Adolwyn Aelwyd Affalon Alaeth

  Alawen Alcam

  Glossary

  Mouth of the Avon Wish

  From the Hearth

  Avalon, Land of Apples Sorrow

  from White Water Lily Tin

  Andraste

  Annwyl

  Anogaeth

  Anwtledd

  Arddwr

  Arian

  Awyr

  Bendith

  Bendith y Mamau Berthog

  Bol Forla

  Borefwyd

  Braith

  Broga

  Bryn y Affalau

  Bryn Ddraig

  Bryn Fyrtwyddon

  Bryn Gwaun Bryn Llyffaint

  Bryn Mawr

  Bryniau'r Pennard Bryniau'r Mendydd Brythonic, Brythons Bryw

  Bwbachod

  Cadael

  Cernyw

  Cethin

  Cewri

  Ceunant y Gawr

  Chweg

  Coblynau

  War Goddess

  Beloved

  Oath, Taboo, Admonition Love

  Plowman, Farmer

  Silver (metal and color)

  Air, Goddess of Air

  Blessing

  Mother's Blessings, fairy folk Fair, Beautiful

  Morla's Belly

&
nbsp; (Modern: Bride's Mound)

  Breakfast

  Gray

  Frog

  Hill of Apples

  (Modern: Chalice Hill)

  Dragon Hill, the Glastonbury Tor Hill of Myrtles

  (Modern: Wearyall Hill)

  Moor Hill

  Hill of Frogs

  (Modern: Brent Knoll)

  Big Hill

  Pennard Hills

  Mendip Hills

  (adj) British - (n) British People River Brue

  Goblins

  From, a leader in battle

  Cornish People

  Dark, or Ugly

  Giants

  The Giant's Gorge

  Sweet

  Mine Goblins

  Creigiog

  Crib Pwlborfa Crika

  Crwban

  Curyll

  Cyfaill, Cyfeillion (pl) Cymru

  Draig Athar

  Dwrgi

  Dwrtrygydd

  Doeth

  Dolgwyl Waun

  Drwyd

  Dubhydd

  Dwr

  Dyfrgi

  Ellylldan

  Enaid

  Enaid Las

  Eosaidh of Cornualle Eira

  Eryri

  y Fynnon Goch

  Galan Gaeaf

  Galan Haf

  Genwair

  Glaston

  Glyn y Ffynhonnau Gobaith

  y Gors Felys

  Groth Ddraig

  Grym

  Gwalch

  Gwanwyn

  Rocky

  Polden Ridge

  Like "a sharp poker of red marsh reeds"

  Turtle

  Hawk, Falcon

  Friend

  Wales (cf. Cymry: Welsh People) Air Dragon (e.g. Dragonfly) Otter (older usage)

  Water Peoples

  Wise

  Festival Meadow (Beckery) Druid

  from Black Stag

  Water, Goddess of Water

  Otter

  Marsh Goblins similar to

  Will O' the Wisp

  Soul, Life

  Soul Cup, Cup of Life

  Joseph of Arimathea

  Snow

  Snowdonia (in Wales)

  The Red Spring

  First Day of Winter

  First Day of Summer

  Fishing Rod

  Place of Glass (Glastonbury) Valley of the Springs

  Hope

  The Sweet Marsh

  Dragon's Womb