He had the guts – he fell in love. For that he can’t be blamed. He had the guts, but love is tough, And story’s still the same.
He had the guts to fight for her, He was so brave and bold, He saw the pyre, He watched it burn And then he had to fall.
He had the guts, that fine young man, His armor was sublime, But fate and death walk hand in hand, He had to walk the line.
Of course he loved her- how could he not? Everyone did – kings and knights, poets and queens. She was young, she was beautiful and kind, she was like a budding spring, so light and tender, so bright and gentle.
Creiddylad reminded them of cherry tree flowers, of spring rains, of silken threads and softness of clouds. Nobody saw her for what she was – wilful, strong, like a willow, gracious and fragrant as meadowsweet flower.
I saw that. But I had my sight set on her since she was a girl- all in white,her hair flying in the wind, she wandered into my woods and ate an apple. Years passed and she came back, taking a pomegranate with her when she left.
Third time she ate some grapes, and I knew right away she was the one.
That tournament in her honor was to make her mine, yet Gwythyr came too. Promised, he said. A bargain, I corrected him. Let us ask the maiden.
The maiden smiled to me. She knew me, and she was scared of him. I won the joust, yet she was given to him. I yielded- yet I knew she was mine.
She came to me to say goodbye before her wedding night. She said she loved me – and that night I took her for my wife.
Gwythyr never cared. He sent that young man, Cyledr, to bring her back. Little did he know that Cyledr loved her. Gwythyr promised reward, Cyledr obliged. His father accompanied him, as did his men.
His men fell one by one.
Gwythyr promised him a night with my beloved – and that enraged me. Cyledr was a fine man, but nobody would dare take her away from me. His father tried.
Nwython was old, Nwython fell. Cyledr dared me to a duel. He lost.
His father’s heart was still warm when I pulled it from his chest.
Eat, I said. Eat and be forgiven. I give you wisdom. I give you foresight. I give you rebirth. Eat, and be enlightened.
That was my mercy. He was too noble to die
He took the heart. He walked to the pyre we lit to honor the dead. He walked into the flames.
When we pulled him out, His face was scarred, His face was scorched. His face was the face of a Wyllt- burned, brown as tree bark, his hair singed.
When we pulled him out, the heart in his hands was hot,yet unharmed. He still held it, but refused to be aided.
He felt no pain, and he cried. He stumbled into the woods, and we saw him not.
Well, here I am, Lord, won’t you listen? Typing away thoughts, Blending feelings, Keeping it all in line. Won’t you listen, Lord, Won’t you lend me a hand?
Here I am, Lord, won’t you listen? Won’t you come down from your throne? My heart is aching, Lord, My mind is aflame. Won’t you listen, Lord, Won’t you calm me down?
Here I am, Lord, won’t you listen? Won’t you help me stand? I am bleeding, Lord, My soul is uneasy, Won’t you listen, Lord, Won’t you save me?
Here I am, Lord, won’t you listen? Won’t you hold me again? Restless are my thoughts, No peace I find. Won’t you listen, Lord? Won’t you keep me safe?
Here I am, Lord, won’t you listen? Won’t you guide me on? Nothing is certain, The skies have lost their depth. Won’t you listen, Lord, Won’t you spirit me away?..
I lay out the cards. One by one, in a trance. One, two, three, four… I see you. There you are, riding out like a King of Wands, your hair flying in the wind.
Slower, slower…Speeding up…flying past me as a King of Swords, your armor glistening in the moonlight, your sword brighter than freshly fallen snow.
I look up. The clouds are gathering, grey on dusty blue, silver lining the black. Wind rises, coming from the North- full with rain, the clouds follow it like a flock of trembling sheep. I see you. A blaze of gold amid the storm, a gust of wind scaring away the clouds.
The Hunt is making its way through the stormy skies – the hounds flash past, their eyes shine as rubies, catching fire, their teeth bare. Horses prance and rear, riders laugh in apprehension. I see you – leather and silver, riding crop swishing and cutting the air.
Whatever I do, I see you. Shadow on the wall, a cry in the wind, a broken melody rising whole on the wings of morn.
Whatever I say, I see you. Words in ancient tongues, unknown and lost, music of old, forgotten days, swirling in the breeze, flowing in the waters of time.
Whenever I close my eyes, I see you. Shining mist in the darkness, twinkling stars in the winter sky, wild rose climbing the walls, jasmine scent flooding the air.
Whenever I sing, I sing praise to you. No other song escapes my lips,no other praise can live in me – I see you, and I am still blinded by your light.
Back to Cadair Idris he rides. Weary and gaunt, for long summer drained him, somber and silent, for the battle days are done.
Back home he rides – to Teyrnas y ser, to the realm of summer stars, to the ancient stone arch atop the mountain – there will he cross the boundary,there will he depart.
Back home he rides, faithful Dormarch at his heel, Du y Moroedd carries him across the lands and seas. Black steed and a glistening hound, white against pure darkness.
Back to Cadair Idris he rides, slowly, his cloak billowing in the chilling winds. His eyes sunken, his voice hoarse, as the cry escapes his lips. ‘Cadair Idris!’
The Hunt follows him, grey riders on black horses, silvery grey in the moonlight. He rides, surely and slowly, his fingers clutching the reigns.
To Cadair Idris he rides, through midnight blues and darkness, to the arch on the mountain, where stardust meets the velvet.
It is time to leave, and he leaves. Until Nos Calan Gaeaf the time stops to regain its pace when the last leaf falls from the Tree of the Dead, the Tree of Life and Knowledge.
Back home he rides, to the icy waters of the Bala lake, to the snow covered rocks and fragrant flowers. Back home he rides, and he is no longer triumphant or glorious – but pale, dark and mournful.
Cadair Idris glistens in the night, and the rider’s face light up for a moment, for he knows the long rest is ahead. He rides forward, and the Hunt follows.
The white hound howls, and the portal opens. The king is coming back – and this time he will stay.
In the midst of life we are in death. And death holds dominion over us all. Death was the only way I saw for myself then- yet all those who knew me may have thought otherwise.
In the midst of life I surely was. One and thirty, brilliant, talented and respected. Avid cricketer, reader of classics, beloved teacher. Who could doubt it, who could ever cast a shadow over my blissful existence?
I could, and I condemned myself. I chose death over life, as one chooses one hat over the other in the morning. I chose death over life as a girl chooses violets over roses before the ball.
When they come to judge me, which they surely will in the time to come, will they think me insane or desperate? Will they shake their heads in disbelief or shock? A respectable young barrister, to take his own life, in cold blood? Oh no, he was surely mad – only the madmen fling themselves into the muddy rivers. No decent English gentleman would end his life in such a manner.
No gentleman but me. Poor old Monty, they will say at the club, he was a bit disturbed, to be honest. A bit. Yet not that much. In the midst of life we are in death, they will say. Nothing to be done, the fellow is dead. Dead as a doornail. Over with. Done.
In the midst of life we are in the shadow of doubt. In the midst of life we are never free. In the midst of life we never belong to ourselves.
My life was bleak, understandable and simple. Simple as it can be, simple as the blank canvas – and equally dull. What I longed for, was the meaning. What I never got, was truth.
Death was desirable. Death was predictable. Death was the meaning- until I met her.
Was this meeting the last glimpse of life as I wanted it to be or was it an ill omen of imminent demise?.. I cannot tell. Yet I know that the last ray of the dying sun on her henna coloured hair was the brightest I have ever seen.
Marie Jeannette, she called herself. Alas, this affair could not be- doomed since the very first moment, it reminded me of a withering rosebush, full of wilting roses and broken thorns.
It was never to be,for she would be dead in days, and I would drown myself in weeks following her death. Poor M.J.D, how low you’ve fallen!
Into the Unknown 