From the Cauldron Born

by Kristoffer Hughes

  …the tales of Gwion Bach and Taliesin cannot be lightly dismissed as “folktale” or late developments. Perceptible in them and in their attendant poems, despite the layering of successive generations and external influences, lies the myth of the primeval poet, in whom resides all wisdom.88

  The above quote reiterates the origins of the tale in the distant past and not as simply a product of medieval Wales. The tales’ deep magic causes those who come into relationship with them to be transformed, and they do this, as we are exploring, by means of the archetypes that swim within them. As our journey brings us to the main protagonist of the tale, the one who is to undergo transformation, it is pertinent to explain his primary function above all others.

  Our initial encounter with Gwion may cause us to feel a little sorry for him; after all, he had been minding his own business for a year and a day. To suddenly be burnt by boiling liquid was, again, not entirely his fault, and then all at once he is to be chastised or at worst killed by the wrath of Cerridwen. We would be somewhat hard and cold-hearted to not feel a dash of sympathy for poor Gwion and the incommodious situation he has got himself into. His innocence and the accidental nature of the calamity that befalls him draw us in; we feel for him, and on many levels we can identify with him. We have all been in situations where things have seemingly conspired against us, corners turned to be met by brick walls or, worse, hostility. Sometimes things just happen. And in this case, this lowly lad is at the sharp end of Cerridwen’s wrath, when in all honesty he hasn’t really done anything wrong.

  The realms of mystery are difficult to enter; to begin with, they are invisible to human eyes. You may find clues that allude to them, but they are elusive and enveloped in mists of secrets. To access them we must find the keys that unlock the appropriate doors, and this entire tale is one of those. But even when we find the keys that match the mysteries, we must still find the locks into which they fit. The material may at first seem compelling yet incredibly baffling, leaving one scratching the head in confusion. This is a typical symptom for the majority of folks who approach the doors of the Celtic mysteries. But there is a significant key that allows all other keys to find their matching locks with ease. The riddled poems of Taliesin and other Celtic verse and mythologies cannot be explained unless one refers to a folk tale, which the scholar Ifor Williams identifies as being the tale of Cerridwen and Taliesin. He claims that the shapeshifting Gwion Bach, who is transformed by means of successive initiations and a triple birth, is the key to accessing the mysteries. The legendary and prophetic myths and poems, without exception, require this key to activate their power.89 When activated, the mysteries begin to glow with a light that shines to the furthest recesses of the spirit. The process is quite simple once the key to mystery has been acknowledged, and Gwion Bach is only half the story—the rest of it is fulfilled by you.

  For all that is to follow to make sense, a deep and profound acknowledgment must be accepted at this point. By all means, the study of Gwion Bach, the etymology and the interpretation of his part in the story, both visionary and scholarly, is a worthy exercise. But for the tale to be incorporated as experience, not simply a mental exercise, we must accept that the role of Gwion Bach is indicative of you, the hero on his or her own quest to inspiration and the divine receipt of Awen. This is achieved by seeing oneself in the role of Gwion Bach and accepting the tools that he provides along with his fellow archetypes to embark on the journey. This is a journey in the true sense of the word, for it involves a deep commitment to the study of mystery and immersion in the teachings of our ancestors. The quest becomes a source of knowledge and our heartfelt attempt to access the blissful rapture of connection to the mysteries and the gods of the Celtic continuum.

  The most important aspect of the entire journey, as epitomised by the trials and initiations of Gwion, is the heroic journey into the self. This is achieved by being immersed in every single facet that makes up the self; to balance the otherworldly components of the spirit in harmony with the earthly aspect, not to antagonise or belittle the other but to create harmony. The Celtic systems are the opposite of the traditions of belief commonly found in the East, which encourage the transcending of the self and the acceptance of a universal truth that we have no other choice but to adhere to. The Celtic mysteries do not demand that we transcend or even seek enlightenment per se; they ask that we be of the world whilst simultaneously being aware of the otherworlds and the inexorable link to our primordial origination. By being in the world we learn, we seek, we educate ourselves and expand the mind to be a child of this world and of all others. In Celtica the world is not perceived as an illusion that gets in the way of enlightenment; in fact, the experience of being here, now, is deeply illuminating.

  This old, deep magic is one of being fully present and aware of our true purpose; the meaning of life is to live. To live is to live in all worlds, to sense the worlds beyond the veil and those that inhabit the furthest reaches of our galaxy. To live is to be here now without the desperate searching for another dimension that transcends the one we currently occupy. We are mortal, yet we are facets of the universe learning about itself; the more we learn and experience, the richer our contribution to the whole will be. As we encounter the words of Taliesin in subsequent verse and poetry, we realise that he speaks of being present in all places and as all things simultaneously. Taliesin describes being the universe experiencing itself through a plethora of lives and objects and elements. He also makes reference to his previous life as Gwion Bach, the yeoman’s son who knew nothing of such magic until the blessed drops descended to scald his thumb. The Gwion that he speaks of is you—that is, if you are prepared to embark on this journey into lucidity and magic, where you walk side by side with those who inhabit the other realms. Into the cauldron you have cast aspects of your shadow, your stability, and your strengths; you have acknowledged aspects of yourself, which is necessary for the brew’s productivity. You have identified your talents and skills, your flaws and your passions; you have sought out the witch goddess, lest you impudently approach her cauldron without consent. With all things in preparation, there is only one thing left: the acceptance of you as the vessel that is Gwion Bach.

  It is easy at this point to become lost in gender identification, and it is not the intention of the mysteries to privilege one sex over the other. Gwion Bach may be presented to us as a boy, but in actuality he transcends gender. Gwion’s position in the tale and subsequent transformation applies to both males and females. You are Gwion Bach regardless of your sex.

  Now, as we will discover a little later, the actual realm that Gwion Bach occupies has always been a subject of contention. There is a school of thought that claims the entire tale is based in the otherworld. Eventually it interacts with our dimension with the passage of the babe in the coracle. This concept is worthy of exploration, for although we are told that the tale takes place in an actual, real location, the events that unfold are nothing other than supernatural in nature. Some versions of the tale suggest that it unfolded on an island in the middle of the lake—a physical impossibility, as the lake is a glacial cleft and is unfathomably deep. Now this may imply that aspects of the tale took place between the worlds, in a dimension that bridges this world and the ones that run parallel with it. This theme is a common one in Celtic mythology, particularly in reference to islands; consider the associations with Avalon. If this is the case, then we are provided with a scenario that explains the interconnection of the worlds and how they are blended or knitted closely together, hidden only by the doubting mind. This hints at the fact that the relationship with the otherworld is imperative to the understanding of the mysteries; they are so tightly interlinked that to dismiss the otherworld as mere fantasy is to dismiss the mysteries themselves, for they originate there. Regardless of where the tale takes place, what actually matters is your role in it. It is the search, the quest, famed in Celtic tradition as the quest for the grail. The search, as the ter
m quest implies, reaches into all worlds and deep between them into the space occupied by the flowing spirit of Awen.

  What’s in a Name?

  Gwion Bach literally translates as Gwion the Small, or Little Gwion. It is suggestive that he is either small in stature or demeanour, that his body is perhaps thin and wiry, and that he may not be as strong or robust as his siblings. The name Gwion is constructed from two specific components—gwi and on. If we take the suffix on, we are given a vast storehouse of information relating to the nature of Gwion Bach as something other than entirely human. This opens doors into the world of mystery that otherwise would have remained closed. Within the Welsh language, the suffix on denotes a creature or individual of supernatural erudition and quality; they seem human on the surface, but their identity places them in the realms of the otherworld or in having originated from there. The meaning of on is eloquently described by the scholar Eric Hamp:

  The segmentation Gwi-on is immediately natural since in the Taliesin material we are dealing with a mythical stratum of personages comparable to those whom we meet in the Mabinogi. Therefore we have the Celtic suffix “on” which characterized supernatural beings.90

  This provides us with the notion of how we must commence our examination of this character; again, all is not as it seems. Without the keys of language this information would remain unknown, and we would be ignorant of a cauldron of knowledge that we would otherwise be unable to access. Gwion shares a name in line with other enigmatic supernatural characters of the Celtic mysteries—there is magic here, much more than initially suspected. Owing to the meaning of this suffix, Gwion Bach’s position is similar to that of Rhiannon, who also shares the same “on” aspect. When we meet this creature of magic it is in the first branch of the Mabinogi—she rides upon a white horse and is unable to be stopped unless asked. Her origin is otherworldly, and she is commonly identified as heralding from the realm of Annwn, from the indigenous underworld of the Celts, the land of shadows and the Fair Folk. The implication here is that Gwion Bach may not have been entirely human to begin with, and that his innocent human aspect is a construct that allows us to access him prior to engaging the mysteries. This concept is articulated by John Matthews in his exploration of Taliesin:

  …he is perhaps not human at all, but an Otherworld child whose first adventures take place in the Otherworld but who, once he has undergone a human birth, must go out into the world of men and become human.91

  This is an interesting concept, for it is demonstrative of the complex levels that this tale is engaging with and expressing. On one hand, as we have seen in previous sections, it is a tale set amidst the valleys and woods of Bala, a real place in the apparent world, yet the unfolding tale is nothing less than supernatural. It is easy to imagine that these people were flesh and blood and that they lived real lives among the villagers of the time. But we find that their names belie a deeper, mysterious aspect to them that seems to indicate they are of another origin. I believe that they exist on all levels; as we saw in the examination of Cerridwen, we approach her as a mother and we leave her in the guise of a Mother, yet her attributions betwixt are immensely magical. The same can be said for Gwion Bach; we are able to sympathise with this lowly creature from a humble background. We can sense the pressure of back-breaking work that he endured within Cerridwen’s employment, and finally we empathise with him as the cauldron’s contents accidentally imbue him with the knowledge of the universe. It wasn’t his fault; his innocence draws us in, and this is a vital aspect of his song that is imperative for our own personal approaching of the mysteries.

  The initial attributions of Gwion Bach are related to his innocence; he is a child. The Celtic myths are abundant with stories that tell of children who are born with magical powers or abilities, or who inherit these powers during their childhood. John Matthews refers to these individuals as “The Wondrous Children.”92 Something happens to them—they are changed or transformed or face terrible adversity, some are kidnapped or kept prisoner—but eventually they are rescued or found, and wondrous situations befall them and their kin. The main protagonist in the Four Branches of the Mabinogi is Pryderi, the son of Pwyll and Rhiannon. He is half human, half otherworldly. He is stolen by a supernatural force in his infancy and is subject to myriad magical adventures before being reunited with his parents. Similarly Gwion Bach is taken from his family, from the comforts of his home, and positioned in liminality; he is subsequently transformed and chased through an initiatory process before being reborn as the divine Prophetic Spirit. But vital to our understanding of the entire process is the acknowledgment of the initial quality of Gwion Bach: innocence. Without this incredible attribution we may never find our way to the cauldron, for we must approach it with the innocence of a child. We may come prepared, but we also come trusting that the witch goddess will guide, protect, and ultimately initiate. A child can do nothing other than trust his or her mother; there is no alternative that is conducive to transformation. This is a further lesson of Gwion Bach—to abandon the doubting, cynical, overly analytical mind of an adult who may have succumbed to the apathy of modern society, and to throw caution to the wind and engage with the mysteries in a manner that encourages development and permits magic to enter and dance with the spirit.

  To approach the mysteries with innocence does not imply that we do so uneducated. A child spends years immersed in the tasks of learning, and it would be wise for us to do the same. For we are approaching these mysteries and the teachings therein as children, in a way; we are in the process of learning, of becoming learned. In the same manner as Cerridwen was learned in her arts, so must we become learned in ours. To do this whilst retaining an innocent disposition is a part of the overall magic—to approach the task of learning, of building relationships with a heart and spirit that gasps in awe at magic, is a giant step towards transformation.

  Gwion Bach sings numerous songs of mystery, just as Cerridwen, Morfran Afagddu, Creirfyw, and Morda do; each song is unique, each one a vital ingredient of the brew’s making. The mysteries require us to listen—not just hear, but to listen intently with our spirits. Mystery can hide amidst the colour and drama of a tale, and the keys to accessing them may elude us until we are guided towards them. To begin to understand, we must first study and then commence relationship before eloping fully with the archetypes. In this instance, the name alone provides keys to the teachings of Gwion Bach. Having explored the meaning of the suffix on, we move on to the prefix gwi, where things become a little more interesting, if somewhat befuddling.

  The Paradox of Poison

  The first three letters of Gwion Bach’s name belie another mystery, for they refer to something that at first glance may appear contradictory to the entire process of transformation. The element gwi is cognate with the Old Irish fi, meaning “poison, venom”; this has been extensively explored and researched by the scholar Eric Hamp, who refers to Gwion Bach as “the little prototypic poison.” Since this seminal work was published in the 1970s, it has been accepted that Gwion Bach’s name in its entirety can be translated to mean “the little divine poison.”93 Now this may seem a strange and somewhat perplexing piece of information that is in direct contrast to the nature of Gwion Bach within the tale. For him to be identified as poison or poisonous may seem a harsh blow to deal upon an innocent. But, as usual, there is more going on here. There is more to learn within the meaning of his name.

  Consider the immediate consequences of the ingestion of the three blessed drops. We are informed that the contents of the cauldron are instantly turned to poison, which implies that everything within the brew’s constituents, except for the three drops, were deadly toxic. We are informed:

  …the cauldron broke in two pieces, the water within was now poison except for the three blessed drops, the liquid poisoned the horses of Gwyddno Garanhir who drank from the estuary whose waters were contaminated by the cauldron, and because of that the estuary has forever been n
amed Gwenwynfeirch Gwyddno (the estuary of Gwyddno’s poisoned horses).94

  It seems apparent that once the brew had reached critical mass and expelled the required drops, the contents thereafter were rendered useless. This is a clear indication that the brew is only meant for ingestion by one individual alone; it cannot be shared. Only the initiate must partake of the brew. To receive Awen secondhand is to be in receipt of something that is impure or corrupt, as only the true initiate for whom the brew is truly intended may be imbued with the Prophetic Spirit. Regardless of how much we want it or how noble our intentions, unless we stir the cauldron and tend to it, it will serve only to poison us. There is a profound occult warning hidden within this theme. In order for us to be in receipt of the Prophetic Spirit and assimilate the mysteries, we must undergo the experience alone and with integrity. We cannot receive it by proxy of someone else’s experience; we are not permitted to share. There are rules, as Cerridwen herself states in the poem “The Chair of Cerridwen”: “This is my cauldron and these are my rules!”95

  In order for us to approach the vessel and undergo assimilation of the mysteries, we must be fully prepared and do so of our own volition. We cannot hope to be in possession of the Prophetic Spirit unless we are prepared to work for it. The process requires commitment and devotion. Nothing less is acceptable or in line with Cerridwen’s rules. “The Chair of Cerridwen” poem speaks of her appreciation and acknowledgment of learning; her admiration for Gwydion, the Son of Don, from the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi, whom she refers to as having “the best learning.” She refers to herself as being one of the most knowledgeable ones within the court of the goddess Don. Knowledge and learning are vastly important qualities that are essential to the brew, combined with innocence and trust. These attributes are the primary qualities we must possess before engaging with the mysteries. We approach them informed and educated, and trust that the archetypical forces will serve to guide and assist us. Cerridwen’s demand that we be learned enforces the primary Druidic tenet of ages past that the skills of the mind and the intellect must be encouraged and developed. Learning is of immense importance, not only to the development of the mind and to enrich the storehouse of wisdom, but also to encourage relationship with the mythological material and the archetypes therein. It highlights a common condition of the twenty-first century and its inappropriateness to occult study: the “I want it now” mentality.