by J. M. Hofer
Tegid tossed Bran roughly onto a moss-covered stone floor.
Bran turned and looked up in shock, able to see his terrible host clearly for the first time. He was easily nine feet tall. A long black beard flowed over an equally hairy chest. His feet were bare, and he wore nothing but a knee-length tattered tunic that appeared to have been fashioned from a weather-worn sailcloth.
“Well? What are you waitin’ for?” the giant growled, gesturing impatiently toward the cask.
Bran rushed to open it and took the drinking horn from around his neck. It looked ridiculously small for a man of Tegid’s size. Nonetheless, he filled it and offered it up.
Tegid took it in his meaty hands and drained it. “Again, dog!” he barked, holding it out. Bran refilled it three more times before Tegid spoke again.
“Gods!” he bellowed, after finishing his fourth. “Gods, that be good!”
Bran continued to fill Tegid’s horn as many times as he held it out, daring to hope he might escape with his life as long as there was the promise of more wine in Tegid’s immediate future. He prayed the cask held enough to give him the time he needed.
“Ula is nursing a child…” Bran ventured carefully.
“What?” Tegid cut him off. “I’ll kill the man what fathered it! Who is he?”
“The babe’s an orphan,” Bran clarified. “She found him, adrift in the sea.”
“Found him in the sea, eh?” Tegid frowned. “Yet she has milk to nurse the wee one?” He stared down at Bran with a skeptical eye, long enough to make it clear he was no fool. “Sing me a song or tell me a tale, Murderer,” he demanded, changing the subject. “It’s been too long since I’ve heard either.”
Bran could not spin a tale as well as Talhaiarn or Islwyn, but he could manage well enough. The tale he was best at telling was of his ordeal in the caves, but that ended with the death of Tegid’s son. Clearly a bad choice. “I’ll tell you of my journey to Annwn,” he offered instead.
“Lies!” Tegid spat angrily. “Can you tell no’ but lies, Murderer?”
Bran’s heart leapt at his near miss. If I lose him, I’m a dead man. “I swear, Great Tegid, I have been to Annwn.” He turned around and pulled his hair aside, revealing the silver mark of Arawn upon his neck.
Tegid leaned forward and poked at the strange symbol, nearly knocking Bran to his knees as he inspected it. When he was satisfied, or at least sufficiently intrigued, he commanded, “Tell yer tale.”
Bran noted he had not addressed him as “dog” or “murderer,” and saw it as progress. He launched into his tale, employing all the storytelling arts he knew. To Bran’s relief, Tegid remained engaged despite the amount of wine he had drunk. He listened carefully, never interrupting, until Bran told him of his victorious return from Annwn, and how the Great Mother had granted him the great sword, Caledgwyn. Tegid’s expression twisted into doubt, but before he could accuse him of lies again, Bran put his hand on his sword hilt and looked down at it.
“Yer tellin’ me that’s the legendary Caledgwyn?” Tegid challenged.
“Yes. Would you like to see her?”
Tegid did not answer, but Bran knew he wanted to see it. All men did. He slowly unbuckled the scabbard from his waist, and presented it to him.
Tegid could not hide the awe from his face as he stood and unsheathed the sword. He reverently grasped the hilt and held it aloft, marveling at its blade as it gleamed like forged moonlight within the small pool of light the smokehole provided. Though it was too small a weapon for a man of his size, he appeared to be just as humbled by its perfection as any other man.
“The fabled Caledgwyn,” he whispered under his breath.
“Tell me, if you would, Mighty Tegid,” Bran ventured, “How did you come to meet a fate such as this? What curse holds you here?”
Tegid looked down at Bran and raised an eyebrow. “Dinna you know, then?” He let out a sigh and sat back down, resting the luminous blade of Caledgwyn across his lap. He looked as if he had no intention of ever giving it back.
Bran shook his head. “I don’t.”
Tegid nodded absently at Bran’s response as he slid his huge fingers down the smooth surface of the sword, gazing at its beautiful blade.
He sighed again. “T’was a woman. Cerridwen o’ the Isle. T’was she that cursed me.”
Tegid drained the horn once more, and Bran rose to refill it.
“I grew up on the shores o’ this lake,” Tegid continued. “From the first moment I saw that damned Isle, I dreamed o’ reachin’ it. Me mother tried ‘er best to scare me with grisly tales o’ wild, blood-thirsty witches she said lived upon it, warnin’ me that the mist ‘round the Isle was full o’ their dark magic, and that t’would swallow me up.” Tegid took a disdainful look at his surroundings, and then added with a wink, “As you kin see, I did no’ listen to ‘er.”
Bran was not sure if he should laugh, so he did not. He simply nodded.
“Fer twenny years, I fished and swam in this lake, gazin’ toward the Isle, and fer twenny years, it haunted me dreams. I prayed ev’ry mornin’ to the spirits o’ the lake, like me father did, but no’ just for a good catch—I prayed fer ‘em to help me reach the Isle.”
“When I was old enough to have me own fishin’ boat, I began tossin’ offerin’s into the lake at dawn. T’was me grandmother who told me to—said I should take care to keep the spirits o’ the lake happy. I don’t know if me offerin’s were the reason the mists parted fer me, but they earned me the trust of all manner o’ creatures in this lake, includin’ the one that near took your life.”
Bran shuddered, remembering the crushing cold darkness of the lake’s depths as the afanc dragged him powerfully toward the bottom to drown him. He had managed to gouge the beast’s eye out and free himself, but the foul thing had nearly succeeded.
“Finally, me terrible wish was granted,” Tegid continued. “I’ll ne’r forget that day. The sky looked like the coat o’ a dappled grey mare, and winter bit at me wet hands as I prepared me boat. The geese were flyin’ south to flee the cold as I rowed out to where the fish were. I threw out me nets, as I had a thousand times before, but that was the mornin’ the Isle opened ‘er robe to me.”
A thunderclap sounded and rain began to fall through the smokehole far over their heads, but Tegid merely glanced up, unfazed. “That dark beauty was standin’ there on the shore. I dared not take me eyes off ‘er as I rowed, fer fear she’d disappear. She did no’ take ‘er eyes off me, either. Me heart was poundin’ ‘gainst me ribcage. Me bowels turned to water thinkin’ the mist would close ‘round ‘er and I’d be left to drift on the lake ferever, as me mother warned—but she did no’ disappear, and when me boat slid upon the sand o’ that shore, t’was as if I’d sailed to the Summerlands.”
To Bran’s surprise, Tegid tossed him a skull that had been fashioned into a bowl. “Drink.”
Bran did not know if the wine was enchanted, or if Tegid was simply so lonely that he was grateful for any kind of company—even his only son’s murderer—but it did not matter. He filled the skull with wine, raised it toward his host, and happily drank it.
“I was young then,” Tegid resumed. “Handsome, too, some said. Ye know how yer blood rises for women at that age. I told ‘er I’d die if she did no’ let me have ‘er, but she woodna yield to me. Said if I wanted ‘er, I must return ev’ry night at sundown fer a moon. I told ‘er I feared the mist woodna part for me again, but she promised she’d part it fer me. I did it, o’ course, returned ev’ry night like she asked. When a moon had passed, she told me I could have ‘er if I promised I’d ne’er lie with another woman.”
Bran sighed and took a drink, for he knew the rest of Tegid’s sad tale.
“I’d a promised ‘er the moon and the sea if she’d asked for ‘em, so, like a fool, I agreed. After I ravished ‘er, we fell asleep, right there on the shore.” Tegid shook his head. “Young fools, we were. Me, most of all. We were found out, and I barely escaped with me life.”
“I tried to get back to ‘er, but ne’er again did the mists part fer me,” Tegid lamented. “I left, fer it were torture to see the Isle where I knew she was, and no’ be able to reach it. I went and found work by the sea. I met a girl and took ‘er for me wife, and brought ‘er home to meet me parents. I was sure she’d fergotten me.”
“But she hadn’t.”
“Noooo.” Tegid shook his head, smiling grimly. “One mornin’ I rowed out at sunrise, like I used to. I’d missed the lake, truth be told. When I saw the mists rollin’ toward me, I tried to get back to shore, but it was too late. They swirled ‘round me boat and swallowed me, and when they cleared, I was here—“ Tegid looked around them at the dripping walls with disdain. “In this soggy stinkin’ hell.”
Bran nodded in sympathy.
“She was here, waitin’—full o’ wrath. She told me about the twins, cryin’ I’d given up on ‘er, that she’d been waitin’ on me two years. There was nothin’ I could say. She cursed me to live out me days here, alone, and here I be, swallowed by the mists, as me sweet mother warned.”
Bran was surprised to find himself moved by Tegid’s predicament. He wanted to free him from his prison, and no longer only for Ula’s sake.
Tegid pointed a finger at him. “That precious selkie was the only company I’ve had in all this time, and I will no’ part with ‘er. She may no’ love me now, but she will, in time. Tell ‘er she kin have ‘til Midsummer to wean the babe, but then, if she do no’ return, I’ll flood yer lands ‘til she does.”
Bran did not protest. He dared not anger his host after so much progress. “What if I could find a way to set you free of this curse, instead?”
“If is a dangerous word,” Tegid warned. “Don’t make the mistake o’ thinkin’ that just because ye’ve been favored by the gods a few times you’re a match fer ‘er.”
“But, if I could,” Bran persisted, “would you release Ula from her bond?”
Tegid wrinkled his brow. “If ye could, and only if it were fer all time. I’ve tried escapin’ for nigh on twenny years, now, and trust me, it canna be done. I suggest ye put yer efforts into bringin’ her back.”
“I give you my word, you’ll be satisfied, one way or the other,” Bran pledged. He reached for the cask to pour them both more wine to drink on it. He was both pleased and confused to find the cask was still completely full. He knew Tegid had drunk at least twelve hornfuls, maybe more—and he himself was on his third—yet the cask was just as heavy as when he had opened it. “Do you know where my companions are?” he asked, hoping he had secured enough of Tegid’s favor to ask.
“O’ course I know,” Tegid said with a malicious glint in his eye. “They arrived the same way as you, and here they’ll be stayin,’ along with yer beloved sword, ‘til Ula returns to me.”
A wave of desperation filled his stomach as he realized he had wagered all of his companions, as well as his sword, for nothing but a few moons of freedom for Ula. Before he could protest, the sound of running footsteps squishing in the mud floated into the chamber from down the corridor. Tegid rose to his feet and took up Caledgwyn, ready to fight.
Both Bran and Tegid were equally shocked when Creirwy burst into the chamber, followed closely by Maur, Irwyn and Islwyn. “Father!”
Creirwy stood squarely in the muck, unafraid, beaming up at her father.
Tegid lowered the sword, staring at her as if she were a ghost. His hands began to shake. He sat down so he could see her face to face. “Creirwy?”
She ran and threw her arms around him. “Father, come with us!” She motioned to Islwyn. “We can part the mists!”
She looked like a butterfly caught in the hairy arms of a massive spider. A spider with tears in its eyes.
“I know ye can, clever lass, but I canno’. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Creirwy turned and looked at Islwyn expectantly, who stepped forward. “Great Lord of the Lake, would you allow us to try to get you out?”
Tegid sighed heavily, as if he were dealing with young children. “Even if ye could, ol’ man, I canno’ set foot on land. I know, because I did manage to get out o’ here once. Built meself a wee raft. T’was almost as if the mists were asleep that day—I thought they’d fergotten me. They cleared and I found meself back on the lake I’d grown up on. I remember I was so happy I cried. I jumped off the raft and swam as fast as I could fer shore, panicked I’d no’ get another chance, but when I climbed out on the sand, t’was like I was a fish out o’ water. Cunno’ breathe, ye see. Me lungs near burst ‘til I stumbled back into the lake. Everythin’ went black, and when I woke up, I was here again.”
“So even if we get you out, you cannot leave the lake,” Creirwy realized, hope draining from her face.
“No, child, I canno’.”
She paced a few moments, lost in thought, until she proclaimed, “If we cannot get you out, then I shall stay here with you until Ula returns.”
Ugh! No! Bran was horrified by the idea, and judging by their faces, so were the others. “Lady Creirwy, we cannot leave you here.”
Upon hearing this, Tegid Voel exploded out of his chair like a hurricane, ready to launch the full force of his power against them. “She is my daughter, Murderer!” he yelled at Bran. He was his old self again, each word bursting out of him like cannonfire. “Ye would deny me the company of me only child? Yer lucky I’ve let you live! Be gone!”
Surprisingly, Creirwy seemed undisturbed by her father’s outburst. “Go,” she encouraged them. “I’ll stay with my father until Ula returns. Perhaps there’s something I can do about the curse. Cerridwen was my mother, after all. I must at least try.”
Bran hated the idea of leaving Creirwy behind, but by all appearances she seemed resolute and fearless. She wants to stay. “As you wish, my lady,” he conceded, backing down.
“Father, please give Lord Bran back his sword,” Creirwy asked. “You have me instead, now.”
It was instantly clear that Tegid Voel would deny his daughter nothing, which was somewhat encouraging. He reluctantly handed her the sword, and she returned it to Bran. Bran inwardly thanked the Great Mother and turned to go, motioning to the others to follow.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Irwyn whispered angrily to Bran in his thick accent, “What’s wrong with you? We cannot leave that girl here!
“We have no choice!” Bran shot back, but, truthfully, he still had doubts about it himself.
Irwyn threw up his hands in disbelief.
“The thought of her here in this disgusting place is rather upsetting,” Elffin admitted.
“Shame,” Maur added, shaking his head. “She deserves silks and jewels and feather beds, that beauty! Not this muck!”
“The fat man is right!” Irwyn concurred.
Maur wrinkled his brow at the comment but said nothing, as Irwyn was, after all, agreeing with him.
“There’s no other way,” Bran argued. “We’d be better off thinking of ways to free Tegid Voel from his curse—that’s the only answer, for dooming Creirwy or Ula to a life here is certainly not.”
That simply led into another argument about how they could possibly leave the beautiful Creirwy behind, but eventually it ran itself out and they began making their way back to where they had been parted from their boat. They waded for some time through waist-deep water, spears at the ready, eyeing the water suspiciously.
Bran saw a large fish swim by, and it triggered memories of the dream he’d had on the Isle. “Am I a creature of the river, the lake or the sea?”
He repeated the question over and over in his mind, until, like a bolt of lightning, the meaning of his dream became clear.
“All three!” he yelled in triumph.
“What the devil’s gotten into you?” Maur cried, startled by Bran’s sudden outburst. “Nearly dropped my spear!”
“We ca
n build him a ship! That’s how we’ll free him!” Bran grinned victoriously.
The others stared at him blankly, with the exception of Islwyn, who was smiling.
“Don’t you see?” Bran explained. “He said he made it out once, so we know it’s possible. The curse binds him to the water of the lake, but where does the water of the lake cease to become the water of the river? And where does the water of the river cease to become the water of the sea? It doesn’t. It is all connected—so if he cannot set foot on land, then we shall make him a home on water.”
Elffin shook his head. “That seems too easy.”
“It’s the answer,” Bran replied with confidence. “You said it yourself—the ships Irwyn builds are big enough for a hundred men to make the sea their home for moons.”
“He could live quite well upon a ship.” Islwyn smiled in satisfaction.
“Very well.” Elffin looked pleased that they had finally landed upon a solution. “Irwyn, when we return home, we’ll need to convince my father to allow you to stop working on the ship you’re building for him, and instead build Tegid Voel a ship, as Bran has proposed. I’ll see to it that you have all the men and supplies you need.”
“And a coffer of gold upon its completion,” Bran added. “Whatever Garanhir has paid you for the building of his ship, you’ll be paid double for Tegid Voel’s—and I will double the sum again if you complete the work by midsummer of next year.”
Irwyn smiled and nodded slowly, considering the proposal. “You will have your ship by midsummer, Bran of the Oaks. I will take your gold, and then I shall call no man master.”
“Fair enough.” Bran clasped his hand to seal the agreement.
“Should we tell Tegid Voel of our plan?” Elffin proposed.
“Best not to,” Bran counseled. “I don’t want to promise any more than we can deliver.”
They spent the journey back to Caer Gwythno discussing their strategies for accomplishing the task at hand.
Elffin turned to Bran, his face pensive. “This won’t be easy. We need to convince my father to dedicate an extensive number of men, supplies, and Irwyn’s expertise to the building of a ship that won’t belong to him.” He shook his head. “He’s a stubborn man.”