From the cauldron he rises, tall and proud, his brow alight with stars. In his eyes – the wisdom of ages, his arms – like raven wings, catching the wind.
From the cauldron he rises, distant yet close, stern yet soft, like candlelight in winter. In his eyes – the ages of knowing, his hair flowing freely in the nighttime air.
From the cauldron he rises, ageless, infinite, like the song. His face – stardust and sunshade, his voice – the song of the ocean, the trembling of leaves.
From the cauldron he rises, slowly and surely, like a seedling finding its way through the soil and into the sunlight, his cloak- mist and forest green, meadow rains and flowing rivers.
From the cauldron he rises, a man and a boy, a sage and a child, moonlight aligning his features. His lips part, as the petals of wild rose before the new born sun, and his voice dominates the darkness.
From the cauldron he rises, seven winds at his command, nine waves crashing at his feet. Gentle yet sharp his glance is, as it pierces the twilight, dusk, dawn and nightfall.
From the cauldron he rises, a raven in the gloom, an eagle soaring above, a silver starling singing for the first time.
From the cauldron he rises, a shapeshifter, a shaman – his features merge and morph, they are never the same. Millions of faces, thousands of voices- all in one, all here.
From the cauldron he rises, and makes his way towards the castle on a cliff, through heather and stone, grasses and damp of the rain that has just fallen, his feet tread the ground.
From the cauldron he rises, and it shatters into pieces. Shadows dance between the broken and the whole, as the fire licks the blood red of the potion left behind.
From the cauldron he rises, and is no more. The bard is born, and the bard is gone. The moon watches over him, but he moves too quickly to be caught.
From the cauldron he rises, and the waves rise to greet him. The bard is born, and none will ever rival him.
From the cauldron he rises, and his name shines in the dark, preceding him. Known to all, solved by none.
…and she chose a young boy by the name of Gwion Bach to tend the cauldron, and an old blind man called Mordda, to keep the flame…
That’s how the legend goes; but be aware of legends, for they can cloud the judgement and their ways are of the morning mist, that creeps from nowhere only to cover the truth with seemingness.
I will tell you this story as you’ve never heard it before, for I was there, and none other but me can tell it – after all, they call me the greatest storyteller for a reason. And now- to the story itself, for we have no time to linger.
There was, once, a mighty sorceress by the name of Cerridwen, who was also called Ogyrwen, or all-knowing, who lived close to the lake of Bala. So wise was she that gods themselves asked for her advice, and Gwydion was no exception. His deeds were many, and most of them though done with best intentions, backfired on him in such a manner that he had to resolve much at the same time.
When he was young and far more careless, he met a maid, goldenhaired and fair, and wooed her. And by the Calan mai she gave birth to a boy, so fair in looks that sunlight couldn’t rival him. And, as she bore him by the brook, she called him Gwion Bach, meaning ‘little stream’. For a time, Gwydion was happy and content, but his nature made him leave the child and his mother – and he never saw them again for years to come.
Six years passed, and a strange dream began haunting Gwydion. Immediately he understood that his son was in danger- for a small brook in the valley became blood, boiling so vehemently that it turned to poison. He loved the boy, and so he rode to the village he left him at all those years ago.
Upon arriving, he found him to be an orphan, for his young mother fell ill and died in winter time, and there was no one to look after the boy. Bright and clever the lad was, and Gwydion marvelled at his will and talents, but remembering the dream, he decided to visit Cerridwen to seek her advice. So he left the child for a day, and rode off to Caer Tegid, whence she lived with her husband Tegid Voel and two children.
The storm drove him to her door well past midnight, and the house was already silent when he knocked. Cerridwen’s acumen however prepared her for a visit. For three nights she couldn’t sleep, for in her dreams a great Cauldron boiled and broke with a cry, and blood poured out of it, poisoning the glen.
Gwydion fell on his knees and implored Cerridwen to help him.
‘Save my son!’he cried. ‘Save him for I can see the danger coming, and I cannot see its face. I have tried everything but still it grows and all I know is that I have to hide him. ‘
‘You have nowhere to turn’ Cerridwen told him ‘Wherever you go, trouble follows’.
But she agreed to shelter the boy, and Gwydion though still troubled, rode back to get him. Having arrived he saw that the storm wiped the village clean, killing many and leaving many homeless. Of all children of the village only Gwion was left alive. To his horror, Gwydion realized the storm was of magic, and judging by the outcome, it had been raging for weeks.
Cerridwen loved little Gwion from the first glance, and her children took him in unquestioningly and with open hearts. Gwydion and Cerridwen agreed that Gwion would stay for a year and a day – and Gwydion would watch over him in the guise of an old man, so if danger comes, he’d be there to ward it.
Meanwhile Cerridwen was to prepare a potion so mighty that if overdone it would turn to poison- for Gwion’s fate depended on it. It fell upon Cerridwen to make the boy a prophet and a bard unrivalled and a magician unequalled, and for hours she toiled and brewed, and on Nos Calan Gaeaf the brew was done.
Tired, she fell asleep, leaving Gwydion still disguised as an old man, and Gwion to tend the cauldron. And as she slept, the potion began to boil, and turned gold, and red, and white – and Gwion stirred and stirred, as he was taught, and nothing came of it. And three drops jumped out, and landed on his chest, and he cried.
Great lighting came out of the sky, as it darkened, and Gwydion became himself again, rising from the ground. Loud was his voice as he cried,
‘It is done!’
And the boy looked at him, trembling.
‘Run!’ Gwydion ordered, but the boy didn’t move. He was too frightened, you see, and the potion still stang.
‘Run!’Gwydion repeated, but this time his voice was angry. Still the boy stood rooted to the spot.
‘Run, boy! Or she will kill you!’
Gwion looked at him in fear and ran as fast as he could. The cauldron boiled and broke, and the potion became blood. And Cerridwen awoke.
‘What have you done, Gwydion son of Don? What didn’t you tell me?..’
‘You have to chase him. You have to chase him until the sun dies. He has to be reborn. Don’t ask me, Cerridwen…that is all I know’.
She looked at him, pale and trembling. Never before did she see great Gwydion in such state. Into a greyhound she turned, and the chase began.
Through guises and faces, through valleys and hills she chased him- and finally, devoured him on a guise of a black, red crested hen.
In nine months she bore him, a boy that outshone the sun. Nine days she sang to him, blessing him, and couldn’t let him go. Tegid Voel, her husband, had to step in. Wrapping the child in silks and furs, he put him in a coracle and sent him down the stream….
That is how the tale goes. The true tale – not the one you’ve heard so many a time. And what became of Gwydion, do you ask? He returned to his uncle’s court, and after that his legend became his own. As for Cerridwen, she kept on watching over Taliesin – for that was Gwion Bach’s new name.
How do I know that? Gwydion is my name, and this is the story.
I am a leaf of an ancient tree, The blackthorn’s crown And the hawthorn’s wreath. I am the one who was born of trees, I am the one who knows them all.
The oak of might, and the gorse of gold, The memory of alder, its roots and leaves, The ivy and vine, with all its fruit, I am the one who was born of trees, I am the one who knows them all.
Springtime fragrance of apple bark- Fern and beechwood, and royal ash Holly proud and evergreen- I am the one who was born of trees, I am the one who knows them all.
Fragrance of apples – as springtime fine, Silvery tremble of poplar fair, Birch of beginning, and yew of death- I am the one who was born of trees, I am the one who knows them all.
Rowan that burns among the snow, Hazel of waters and forest glade Elder of endings, and silent fir- I am the one who was born of trees, I am the one who knows them all.
Heather of hillsides and cliffs of grey, Spindle of fate and the noble reed, Honey that drips from the boughs high- I am the one who was born of trees I am the one who knows them all.
Groves and forests, the hills of green, Wind that carries the news on high, Swift, young rivers and olden seas- Gwydion knows what lies in store, Gwydion sees, and he knows it all.
I was there, when Gwydion conjured a woman of flowers. I was there, when the cauldron boiled, when oak flowers, meadowsweet and broom entranced the woods with their fragrance. I was there, when in smoke and vapour there rose a maiden no one could rival. I was there, though I could not prevent it, and yet – I was there.
I was there when he gave her a name – something his son could not obtain as easily. I was there when she opened her sky blue eyes, and her lips parted. I was there when she spoke, and her voice was the voice of a maiden, soft and pure. I was there when Gwydion taught her to sing and dance, and Math gave her knowledge of the world.
I was there when they brought her forth to a youth of golden hair, who knew nothing of women. I was there when they were wed – a boy with no mother to guide him, and a maid with two fathers to create yet none to teach her. I was there when Gwydion thought the worst to be over, and his mind was at peace. I was there when three nights passed since the wedding, and the two were still strangers.
I was there when the flower maiden longed for the woods, singing by the window. I was there when Lleu looked for his father’s advice and could have none. I was there when Gwydion cried, alone in the woods, and could provide no solace for his son. I was there when Blodeuwedd cried, being unable to please her husband whatever she did.
I was there long before, when Arianrhod was shamed before the court of Math. I was there long before when Dylan was born, out of wedlock and into the roaring sea. I was there long before when Gwydion sought a way to reason with her and gained nothing but scorn. I was there long before when she conceived knowing nothing of the one who took her.
I was there – unnoticed, unheard and unseen, in different guises, for I could not meddle with fate. I was there – when they needed me, in halls and groves, in secret and in the open. I was there – for when they called, I came and attested to what I saw. I was there – for I observed and read the signs, and changing the course of fate was never my task.
I was there, for my name is Cerridwen, I was there, for I am the lady of the lake, I was there, for I am knowledgeable and wise, I was there, but the one giving advice is sometimes misheard.
I was there, and I saw it all coming,but Gwydion never cared. I was there when Lleu fell from the oak branches, bruised and weak, I was there, helping to nurse him back to life. I was there when he opened his eyes.
I was there when Huan became Lleu, and when sun became moon. I was there when Blodeuwedd’s flowers faded and died, I was there when their words, first and last, rang in the wind. Blodeuwedd, he cried. Lleu, she whispered. I was there and this secret died within me.
For I am Cerridwen, the lady of the cauldron, and I know the story.
Sometimes she goes deep into the woods to dance. Sometimes it’s just her and the one who lives in the darkest part of the forest.
Sometimes she dances there, among the autumn leaves, and they swirl and fly around her. And the one who lives in the darkest part of the forest, watches her.
Sometimes she sees his eyes, brilliant green as the young leaves and sharp grasses, and sometimes his smile flashes in the shadows.
Sometimes she wonders if he knows her name, and the wind whispers the answer in her ear.
Sometimes he looks at her with sadness, as if he knows too well the fickle nature of the mortal soul. Here today and gone tomorrow, as the children of the trees that follow the songs of the wind.
Sometimes he sees her as she is- young and free, careless and light, as the sunshine, that paints the trees in gold.
Sometimes she steps too close to him, and breathes in the fragrance of the woods. Thyme, sage, rosemary and oak moss, basil and juniper, wild lavender and rowan berries.
Sometimes he leans too close to her, and her scent overpowers him to follow and linger, to haunt and enchant. Daffodils, primroses, meadowsweet and oak flowers, flax and chamomile, apple blossom and honey.
Sometimes they walk hand in hand through the woods, but not too close to the edge. Where the shadow becomes light, he cannot go. Where the darkness thickens, she cannot venture.
Sometimes they embrace – the king of the forest and the witch, and the woodlands fill with magic. Birds sing the sweetest, and fae watch their king in awe for it has been thousands of years since he last fell in love.
Sometimes he wishes to follow her, or she wants to stay- but daylight forbids it, and the night time is too short in summer.
Sometimes the world stops to see them dance- the king of the forest and his witch, dark green against the white, coal black against auburn.
Sometimes he cries – but she never sees it, as she makes her way back. Her tears are her own, and nobody knows she cries each night.
Sometimes he wishes to be mortal, but such wishes are never granted. The king of the forest is forever. The king of the forest is forever alone.
Cyledr awoke with a start, his hair and forehead drenched with sweat. The dream haunted him for months, and no amount of spiced wine could ward it off.
He tried rising up, but his body felt numb and strangely uncontrolled, as if he were a children’s toy, bound to obey the one who held the threads binding his wrists and ankles. His head was spinning, and it made him mad – he wasn’t prone to weakness, and he hated being vulnerable, so he slept with a dagger under his pillow.
The dream, however, took him by surprise. It angered him, but what could one do with a dream save forgetting it? Cyledr was not, by all means, superstitious or particularly keen about any beliefs; his relationship with faith and gods was mistrusting and cautious. This was the most conflicting subject in his life, for his father was a staunch believer, and worshipped the gods in all faith, almost to the point of zealousness. Cyledr however thought faith unobligatory. ‘Great deeds, he used to say, are accomplished by strength and courage, not by worship. ‘
He believed in himself, and battle was his religion. Conflict followed him wherever he went, and he wasn’t much liked for causing trouble,be it girls, wealth, or bravery. Nothing could frighten him, nothing could knock him off his balance – nothing but this wretched dream.
Most dreams vanish with the first rays of sunshine, but some possess strange stickiness about them, that never goes away. They fill you with dread, they haunt you, they have no obvious ending. They seem ominous, chilling- yet somehow you want to see more, to experience the deeper levels. Cyledr’s dream was of the kind, and he didn’t like it as much as he hated darkened woods and suspicious young men of the court.
The dream had woods in it. Pitch black woods, full of strange, deafening silence and flickering lights. He couldn’t see a thing except a tall shadowed figure with glowing golden-green eyes standing in front of him. With one hand it held a sword, and another was holding something revolting enough to see in a dream.
The dream ended abruptly, with something of a lightning bolt tearing the darkness apart. A voice, hoarse and terrifying, cried out to him, and it made him lose his bearings.Cyledr was pretty sure he had never heard any voice of the kind – his memory was keen, the hunter ‘s memory. He knew the animals by trail, he could tell pathways apart in the dark. He could hear the voice of a man during hunting games and recognize it years after. This voice kept echoing in his ears when the dusk lighted up the sky, and all through the day it haunted him, resounding in his head till the nightfall – and even then, when stillness filled the air, the horrid voice was still there.
Lack of sleep weakened him, and panic unknown before, gradually wore him down. That was the least he expected from his strong body, his unyielding mind – but there it was, and nothing could be done about it. The herbalist’ s bunch of leaves and flowers did nothing to ease his condition, and if he tried drinking before sleep,the nightmare grew worse. He could gather his will and strength enough to last for hours, but his usual joys turned bleak. Hunt, training and carousing no longer attracted him, no drink could make him forget the voice – or the sword that shone as a beacon in the pitch black nothingness. You can say, that the dream became his anchor – he knew the night by coming of the dream, and its absence meant the day finally came.
Cyledr was known for his stamina, his toughness and his cold blood. He was never the one to judge or kill in a whim or by folly, and he could easily control his rage in a fight. However, the months of dread and sleeplessness made him irritable, nervous and unfocused – so much so, that he seemed strangely absent from everything around him.
There was only one thing that kept him from running mad,and that was a young maiden he frequently saw at court. Slender and fair, with eyes like summer sky and hair like perfect gold, she wore immaculate dresses and was always accompanied by a handsome youth – her cousin, as everyone knew. Cyledr’s dimmed mind grew sharper at the sight of her, and he even could manage a courteous smile or conversation, albeit lame as he was never a speaker. But as soon as she was out of sight, Cyledr felt his mind going blank again.
The maiden was called Creiddylad, and her beauty blinded him. Her name was Creiddylad, and he pined for her. Her name was Creiddylad, and he wanted her. He wanted her more than a good nights sleep,more than exquisite armour or best swords, more than anything he ever wanted- and he knew he would kill for her. She never noticed him, he thought. She preferred another one, with unruly coal black curls and blazing green eyes, who could dance for hours on end and rode the most magnificent mare there was.
She was in love with another man. That could be it for most men, but Cyledr wanted her. And if he wanted anything, or anyone for that matter, he got it. Creiddylad would be his, and his alone. He would kill the other one, and marry the girl. Or, if marriage was out of the question, he’d make sure nobody else married her. But first, he’d kill the man. He’d pierce his chest with his sword and see that scornful smile die on his perfect lips. He’d kill the greeneyed devil, and he will laugh no more.
Into the Unknown 