by Lowri Thomas
And so Olwyn described her encounter of the previous evening, described Gwrnach’s gentle touch and heavy passion, the thrill and satisfaction, her longing to join with him again … and again.
‘Yes, we get the picture!’ Awel said, flustered and uncomfortable, squirming in her seat as if she would be anywhere else but here listening to Oli’s exploits.
‘And you didn’t take any tincture before the meeting?’ Mab asked.
‘Oh, no, I took nothing and I’m glad I didn’t. I wouldn’t want to have dulled the experience, especially not with Gwrnach.’
Mab was perplexed. Did the ateb really work this well, and if so how could they keep such a boon from the Bwy Hir? Why should they wait?
‘Mab,’ Olwyn’s voice was soft and quiet, ‘can you see if I’m with child?’
Mab raised her eyebrows, the chance of Olwyn conceiving was doubtful, only one Bwy Hir child had been born in the last twenty Summers and that was Taliesin. ‘I will try Oli, but you know the chances–’
‘I know,’ Olwyn cut in, ‘but I just wanted to see ...’
Mab squeezed Olwyn’s arm and smiled. ‘Then let us see.’ Mab closed her eyes and forced her awareness up and away from her body, her breathing slowed, her eyes flickered beneath their lids. She felt alive, truly alive and at one with her surroundings, every blade of grass, every pebble, every leaf; all felt connected to her and her with them. Mab focused and concentrated on those closest to her. She could sense Awel, feel her steady heart beating in her chest, she felt Oli’s laboured breathing, sensed her anticipation, her hopefulness and then she forced her concentration to focus deeper.
Her surprise nearly flung her back to her own body. There in the safety of Olwyn’s womb was the palest flicker of life, a tiny pulse of existence nestled fast and sure, throbbing, thriving.
Mab’s eyes snapped open. ‘Oli …’ she whispered.
‘What is it Mab, what’s wrong?’ Awel was panicked at Mab’s sudden alarm.
‘Olwyn is pregnant, only just, but I feel it.’ Mab’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Awel looked at Olwyn in disbelief. Olwyn looked at Mab in rapture. Mab looked towards the horizon, her eyes fixed and unmoving. There was a brief silence in the pavilion, each woman cosseted with her own thoughts, until Awel broke the trance. ‘Why are we sitting like loons? Should we not be celebrating such welcome news? Come here Oli, let me be the first to congratulate you!’ She grabbed Olwyn and gave her a heartfelt embrace.
‘Thank you!’ Olwyn’s quivering voice radiated through the folds of Awel’s robes. ‘Oh thank you, thank you for this, thank you.’
‘We cannot keep this secret,’ Mab said firmly. ‘The Pride members selected for the Solstice have already been chosen and are written in the Chronicles surrendered to the Host. We will not be able explain away Olwyn’s pregnancy without telling the truth of how she became pregnant in the first place.’
‘Gwrnach must be told he is to become a father!’ Olwyn said, pulling herself from Awel’s slackening embrace.
Mab lifted her hand to signal silence. ‘Olwyn, firstly, I too must congratulate you. However, you are to mention this to no-one until I next summon you. Gwrnach must of course be told of this glorious news, but you must grant me time to make sure we reveal the new ateb properly and protect those, including yourself, who have sacrificed so much in bringing this ateb into fruition. We do not know how all will receive this news or whether all will be prepared to break tradition and change to an ateb that is widely untested and strange to them.’
‘But I am pregnant, Mab!’ Oli cried. ‘Surely all will embrace the new ateb?’
‘Will they? Could your pregnancy be nothing more than a coincidence, could it not be argued your pregnancy would have happened at the Solstice should you have been selected? Do you know how perilous our position is? We created an ateb, we used it without consulting the rest of the Bwy Hir, the Pride alone may well be furious at the snub, we coerced one of the Host into our scheme and now that it has been a success we are stuck in a difficult position. We must reveal ourselves, but how we do that is vital.’
‘She is right, Oli,’ said Awel as she pursed her lips, ‘leave us to find a path through the brambles and I shall send for you as soon as I can, but mark my words Olwyn, you must keep this to yourself for now.’
Oli nodded, making promises of silence. Awel trusted her wholeheartedly. Once she had left, Awel and Mab began to plot, throwing ideas around until they had a scheme they were satisfied would work.
‘I don’t know how I’m to get word to Tali and Gwrnach without the rest of the Host or those damn Druids finding out,’ Awel grumbled, ‘and I hate travelling to that damned Druid pit.’
‘I have a gift I would have you take to my son in readiness for the Great Hunt.’ Mab stood and went to her trunk placed at the foot of her cot. Opening the lid she produced one of her most prized possessions, a gold inlaid hunting bow: a gift from her late father.
‘You are sure you would part with that?’ Awel asked.
‘To none but my son. It is a fitting gift as I feel sure he will blossom while we slumber and I would see him have it for when it happens.’
‘Then I shall take it to him gladly, along with his mother’s blessing and a message of my own, if I may?’
Mab smiled. ‘Take it now Awel, before I change my mind.’ She handed Awel the bow and closed the lid of the trunk.
‘I go this very instant.’ Awel trudged up the hill towards the Cerdd Carega, she clutched the beautiful bow in her hand and ordered her thoughts as she walked. Reaching the Cerdd Carega she forced the image of the Druids’ Reception Hall to come to her mind and touched the stone.
With a flash of brilliant light she reappeared in the Reception Hall deep within the Eryri Mountain. The startled Druid on duty snapped to attention as she landed in the hall; a member of the Pride was not a frequent visitor to the mountain. She glared down at the guard when he asked whom she wished to see. ‘I am Bwy Hir,’ she boomed, ‘you will bow when you speak to me.’
Remembering himself, the guard bowed deeply before asking in a much more servile tone, ‘Honoured lady, to whom do you wish to speak?’
Much better. ‘You will advise Taliesin ap Aeron Ddu that Awel of the Pride bares a gift from his gracious mother Mab Rhedyn Haf, Queen of the Summer Realm.’ Her voice was haughty and cold.
Awel waited impatiently in the Reception Hall. This place stinks, she thought to herself as she wrinkled her nose at the stench of torches and candle wax mixed with the reek of stale cooking and man-sweat that assailed her senses, making her feel nauseous.
‘Awel, what a lovely surprise!’ Taliesin beamed as he skidded to a halt in front of her and threw his arms around her. She held him in the embrace and whispered quickly in his ear, he nodded that he understood, although he was surprised at her request.
She pulled away from him and dropped into a mock curtsy. ‘Your mother requests you accept this gift to mark your forthcoming blossoming.’ She held the bow up and presented it to him.
‘This is my grandfather’s bow!’ Taliesin held it up to the light to admire its beautiful inlay. ‘This is a splendid gift indeed, please thank my mother and send her my deepest respects and love?’
‘As you command.’ Awel said with a side smile before turning to the Cerdd Carega and disappearing.
Errand accomplished, she made her way back to the hollow and found something to eat and drink before seeking out Mab. ‘Your son sends his thanks, deepest respects and love,’ Awel repeated as she entered the pavilion.
‘Is he well?’ Mab asked anxiously.
‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough. We meet this evening in the Ty Mawr Forest.’
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Anwen was preparing to accompany Nerys to church. She was wearing a blouse buttoned to her neck, a skirt well down past her knees and a pair of flat shoes. Her hair was brushed to gleaming and she wore the lightest of makeup on her lips and eyes. Looking at herself in th
e mirror she grimaced, she felt hideous.
She reluctantly dragged herself downstairs and into the kitchen. She glared at Gwyn who was sniggering as she entered.
‘My, Anwen, you look lovely!’ Nerys cooed as she swatted Gwyn across the back of his head with a tea-towel. ‘Shall we get off?’
They grabbed their coats and left the house. Anwen stuck her tongue out at Gwyn as she left and he snickered all the more. The two women waved goodbye to Dafydd who was up on the barn roof nailing slates to battens and they made their way down the lane towards the main road that would lead them to the church.
Outside the church they were greeted by the local parishioners. Anwen recognised everyone there, Nerys reacquainted herself with those she knew and shook hands with those she didn’t. The handshaking and welcome smiles continued on into the church, the congregation pleased to have two more to add to the dwindling flock.
Anwen noticed there were far more women than men dotted among the half empty pews and she wondered idly why that was. Just as Anwen and Nerys were getting settled the wheezing pipe organ leaped into life, the congregation stood and the rotund vicar sauntered down the centre aisle with an air of self-importance. He stepped up into the pulpit and looked behind him at the numbers on the hymn board. He waited for the organist to stop playing with ill hidden exasperation and spoke in a dreary monotone voice. ‘Hymn number two hundred and sixty-one.’ Nerys began singing with gusto, her soprano voice mingling with the congregation, Anwen just mouthed the words.
Anwen was beginning to lose the will to live by the time two more hymns and a reading from the bible was delivered by a reedy old woman who spoke through her nose. ‘James five. Thirteen to twenty,’ she began, ‘is any one of you in trouble?’ Anwen sank into her seat. ‘He should pray. Is anyone happy? Let him sing songs of praise. Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord …’ Anwen looked round the church and blocked out the grating voice. Craning her neck she looked around the pews trying to spot vicar’s son, Marcus Harris-Morgan. She found him sitting near the front of the church next to his dowdy, snooty, cadaverous mother, Mrs Abigail Harris-Morgan. “Why yes, I am originally from the Harris family, my father was a Bishop, don’t you know!”
Anwen wrinkled her nose and got a shove in the ribs from Nerys’ elbow. ‘Stop staring,’ Nerys whispered from the corner of her mouth. Anwen sat up straighter and concentrated on the reader.
‘My brothers, if one of you should wander from the truth and someone should bring him back, remember this: Whoever turns a sinner from the error of his way will save him from death and cover over a multitude of sins.’ The old woman gingerly stepped down from the lectern and retook her seat.
Vicar Morgan cleared his throat. ‘And so, what are we to learn from this passage?’ he asked the congregation, not expecting or wanting them to answer. ‘Prayer … prayer is the answer to all afflictions on the body, mind and spirit … the remedy is to pray, whether we pray for forgiveness, or pray for someone who suffers sickness or pain, whether we pray for wisdom or simply wish to contemplate our lives in the presence our Lord, we must pray!’
Enough, Anwen thought to herself, enough, I can’t take any more. Her head rolled back to rest on the back of the pew and she stared at the ceiling, drifting far, far away, daydreaming.
‘Let us pray.’ The vicar’s voice made Anwen jump back to reality. He sounded as though he was standing right next to her, but when she lifted her head he was still perched in his box.
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ the parishioners chanted together, ‘hallowed be thy name …’
Anwen snuck another look at Marcus Harris-Morgan and he caught her staring. He smiled and she quickly looked away blushing. Anwen thought Nerys had missed the exchange as her head was bowed in sombre prayer, but as Anwen ducked her head back down Nerys again whispered, ‘Stop staring!’
When the service was over, Anwen and Nerys deposited their prayer books back on the shelf at the end of the aisle and accepted the offer of tea and biscuits being served at the back of the hall in yellowy tea cups on scuffed saucers.
‘Will you take a biscuit?’ offered Anne Harris-Morgan, as she smiled up from her tea-making duties. Her hands were full with a battered metal milk jug and a chipped plate carrying an assortment of stale looking pink wafers and digestives absently piled on top of one another. I bet she wouldn’t serve tea like this at home, Anwen thought, it would all be fine china, silver sugar tongs and linen napkins.
‘Thank you, I will.’ Nerys leaned over and delicately picked a pink wafer from the plate and set it on her saucer.
‘Did you enjoy the service?’ Anne’s affected voice was made worse by her horsey yellowing teeth and her pinched mouth. Her hay coloured hair had been severely cut into a box shaped bob framing her face unattractively and made her look as though she was wearing a helmet. She had worn her hair in this style for all the time Nerys had known her, only the colour had changed gradually, fading strand by strand.
‘The service was lovely,’ Nerys said graciously. ‘Your husband has such a fine speaking voice.’
‘And you Anwen, did you enjoy the service as much as your aunt? Did you understand the message?’ Anne’s eyes were cold and questioning but her smile remained fixed.
‘Oh yes, it was … very interesting.’ Anwen nodded her head and smiled sweetly like the dutiful Christian niece she was playing.
‘Don’t stand talking to my mother too long, she’ll rope you into the Mothers’ Union quicker than you can blink!’ Marcus smiled as he joined the little circle.
Anwen took the opportunity to appraise him as if he was a ram at market. His hair was tawny brown, neatly combed and parted in a flick, he was medium height, slightly overweight and Anwen wondered if his mother had chosen and bought his clothes as they looked a little too middle aged for the young man standing in them. Anwen thought he was mediocre, nothing special to look at, just like his parents.
‘Don’t you have to be a mother to join the Mother’s Union?’ Anwen asked, trying not to blush.
‘No, no!’ Marcus laughed patronisingly and Anwen felt herself bristle. ‘The only qualification you need is to be a dab hand in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, Anwen is a marvellous cook,’ Nerys interjected, ‘her apple crumble is to die for, you should taste it Marcus. One mouthful and you’ll be hooked for life!’ She chuckled and patted his arm.
‘Really, well maybe I’ll get the privilege one day.’ Marcus smiled at Anwen and she felt herself blushing again. Anne let her mask slip momentarily and frowned peevishly. ‘Marcus, can you take these biscuits round for me?’
‘Of course mother.’ He accepted the plate and was about to leave when he added, ‘Anwen, there’s a film club that meets every Monday evening in the church hall, perhaps you’d like to join us? Tomorrow’s showing is The Pink Panther, it starts at seven o’clock if you’d like to come? I can give you a lift home if you like, I’ve just passed my driving test.’ He beamed smugly.
‘Anwen would love to!’ Nerys agreed quickly. ‘I’ll see she gets there safely if you could see her home that would be lovely, thank you Marcus.’
Marcus nodded and smiled. ‘See you tomorrow then, Anwen,’ he said, as he vanished into the small crowd to pass the biscuits round.
‘Well, we must be off,’ Nerys said to a peeved Anne. ‘We’ve got two hungry men waiting for their roast dinner.’
‘Oh, goodbye then.’ Anne’s mask was firmly back in place, her friendly smile not quite reaching her eyes. ‘Give my regards to Dafydd and Gwyn won’t you? How long are you staying at Ty Mawr, Nerys?’
‘As long as needs be – my house is being remodelled you know. Brand new kitchen, brand new bathroom, oh brand new everything, goodness how long it’s all going to take to be finished!’ Nerys boasted but feigned indifference, as if she had brand new everything every day.
Nerys and Anwen left the church, politely giving smiles a
nd farewells to all that noticed them leaving. Anwen felt their eyes boring into the back of her head. As they reached the church gate it began to spit, tiny raindrops from a grey cloudy sky carried on a cold wind.
Pulling their coats tighter they began the trudge home hoping the heavens wouldn’t open before they got indoors. ‘Well what do you think?’ Nerys asked as she huffed and puffed up the road.
‘I think they’re all horrible and Marcus is nothing to look at.’ Anwen stuck her chin in her coat and shoved her hands in the deep warm pockets.
‘A sweeping statement!’ Nerys panted, trying to keep up with Anwen’s sure gait. ‘But do you think you can do it?’
‘Do what?’ Anwen demanded. ‘Do I think I can stomach an evening with Marcus Harris-Snotty-Morgan? Do I think I can drag myself to church every Sunday? Do I think I can become one of them? No, no and no!’
‘It wasn’t that bad Anwen, and going to church once in a while is good for the soul–’
‘Is it?’ Anwen snapped. ‘Is it good for my soul to witness hypocrites pretending to be holier than thou? Is it good for my soul to have to smile at people I don’t care about, who I don’t even like?’
‘Anwen!’ Nerys was surprised at Anwen’s venom.
‘See this is why I don’t go to church!’ Anwen spun on her aunt. ‘I am a good person Aunt Nerys; I don’t steal, I don’t hurt people, I try and be kind, but them in there,’ she said, poking a finger in the direction of the church, ‘make me feel like I don’t measure up, that I’m a bad person, that I’m not good enough, and if that’s what Christianity does then you can keep it. I don’t have to go to church to be a good person, I am a good person, or at least I try to be.’ Anwen was incensed. ‘God can judge me, but they can’t, not Marcus, not his mother, only God. I’m not doing it, I’m not putting myself through it, I’m going to go home and tell Dad what I’ve done and be damned!’ She stormed off ahead of her aunt ignoring her calls to slow down and talk about it.