Foxfire, Wolfskin
Page 16
Flower-Face
In the fourth of the Four Branches of the Mabinogi, a collection of Welsh medieval tales, Blodeuedd (Middle Welsh: ‘flower-faced’; pronounced Blod-EYE-weth) is fashioned from flowers by Math, King of Gwynedd, and Gwydion, a devious and trouble-making enchanter. She is created as a wife for Lleu Llaw Gyffes, son of Arianrhod (Gwydion’s sister), who has placed a curse on him that he should never have a human wife. Blodeuedd, however, falls in love with Gronw Pebr, the lord of Penllyn, and the two conspire to murder Lleu. Blodeuedd tricks Lleu into revealing the only, and rather bizarre, fashion in which he might possibly be killed. This requires him to be standing with one foot on the edge of a bathtub by a river, and with the other foot on the back of a billy-goat. So it happens that she arranges Lleu’s death, by convincing him that she needs to be persuaded that such a circumstance really would be very unlikely indeed. Lleu allows her to construct the scenario as a test of this.
Once Lleu is in position, Gronw throws a spear at him; but although it strikes him, he is not killed: he shapeshifts into an eagle and flies away. Gwydion tracks him down with the help of a pig, and finds him sickening, rotting, perched high in an oak tree. He lures Lleu down from the tree and changes him back into his human form. He and King Math nurse Lleu back to health; Lleu then challenges Gronw, whom he kills, while Gwydion chases Blodeuedd and turns her into an owl, saying: ‘… because of the shame you have brought upon Lleu Llaw Gyffes, you will never dare show your face in daylight for fear of all the birds. And all the birds will be hostile towards you. And it shall be in their nature to strike you and molest you wherever they find you. You shall not lose your name, however, but shall always be called Blodeuedd. Blodeuedd is “owl” in today’s language. And for that reason the birds hate the owl: and the owl is still called Blodeuedd.’ – quoted from Sioned Davies’ translation of The Mabinogion (Oxford University Press, 2007), page 63.
The story ends with Lleu becoming King of Gwynedd.
I couldn’t allow Gwydion’s injustice to stand. In some parallel universe, Blodeuedd is definitely paying him back.
I’m grateful to Donna Daigle for allowing me to borrow the phrase ‘You dared to judge me?’ which comes from a poem she wrote while attending one of my workshops in Wales.
No Country for Old Women
In some stories about her in Gaelic folklore, the Cailleach (the old woman who is the creator and shaper of the land; pronounced ‘Kal-yach’, with a soft ‘ch’ as in the Scottish word ‘loch’) has the ability to renew herself every hundred years – to transform herself into a beautiful young woman again – by bathing in a particular lake. But a tale is told in some places (on the Isle of Mull, for example) that if she hears a dog bark or a bird sing early in the morning before she arrives at the lake, she will not be able to renew herself and will die. Unfortunately, in this old tale, a neighbouring shepherd forgets to lock up his dog on the night before the Cailleach is due to renew herself; at dawn the dog barks, and so she dies.
There are many stories in Ireland and Scotland about how the Cailleach is eventually killed – often by a priest, or another Christian figure such as St Patrick. It’s a common enough theme, as a consequence of Christianisation and the consequent efforts to subvert or bury native pagan traditions. But there are as many stories which show the Cailleach outwitting the priests, and in spite of them she has managed to live on in the folk tradition, and is enjoying something of a resurgence today.
Acknowledgements
Much gratitude as ever to the wonderful women at September Publishing – especially to its founder, my lovely editor Hannah Macdonald, who applied herself with her usual skill and enthusiasm to this third book with them. I’m looking forward to more. Also to Charlotte Cole, dearest and subtlest of copy-editors, and to my agent, Kirsty McLachlan, for her ongoing support.
This kind of writing – at least for me – is a profoundly solitary endeavour. But thanks are due as always to my husband David, for seeing me through the rigours of writing another book and for picking up all the pieces I dropped along the way. And for crying in all the right places. And to the fabulous four collie dogs – Nell, Fionn, Jess and Luna – for keeping me company by a winter stove while the fires of imagination burned.
I’m grateful to my mother, for never telling me that fairy tales didn’t matter, and for letting me read as many of them as I liked. And to those lands of stone and sea – the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, and Connemara here in the west of Ireland – whose stories transformed me and inspired me, and which, it seems, are never really going to let me go.
My penchant for strange fairy tales – originals, retellings or reimaginings – has been fuelled by the magical short stories of Emma Donoghue, Sara Maitland, A. S. Byatt and, of course, the inimitable Angela Carter.