‘I know what to do with you, Cyledr’ Gwyn hissed. ‘But first, tell me why you followed my bride last night ‘
‘I wanted to take her back, that’s all. He told me to, Gwythyr. I’m one of his’.
‘Don’t you lie to me, son of Nwython’ Gwyn’s voice became steely, dangerous. ‘Don’t you dare lie’.
‘I’m not lying’.
‘You are. You’d have taken her for yourself ‘
Cyledr felt the dagger’s tip pierce his neck.
‘Let him go!’
Creiddylad ran out of the tent, worried, pleading.
‘Please, that is enough, let him go!’
‘He’d have raped you, if not for my men, how do you not see it? He’d have raped you and left you for dead. That’s what you do to fair young maids, Cyledr- don’t you? How many have you killed? Twenty? Thirty?’
Creiddylad looked repulsed, disgusted. She clearly didn’t know – but he was right.
‘Should I dispatch him for you, my lord?’ Taron suggested, stepping closer, but Gwyn waved him off.
‘Should he, now?’
Cyledr felt his legs tremble and give in. Fear filled his every pore, panic seized his mind.
‘Have pity, lord ‘ he croaked ‘Have pity’
‘Plead ‘
‘Please, I will do whatever you want! Let me go, and you’ll never hear a thing about me. I know I’ve done many a bad thing, but please…I swear by my father’s life, I’ll do whatever you want ‘
Gwyn looked pensive. He frowned, biting his lip. Misjudging that, Cyledr almost thought he had a chance. But Gwyn wasn’t that simple.
‘Bring in the prisoner’ he finally said. Panic rose in Cyledr’s mind again. Were they going to torture someone in front of him to get him do what they wanted?
The prisoner had his face covered, but his voice seemed familiar, although it was muffled and tense.
‘Whatever you do to me, I forgive you’ he said ‘ I know you can be ruthless, son of Nudd, but I never wronged you, nor your kin. If you kill me, well, I’m an old man, I’ve had my time. But please, I beg you- if you have my son somewhere here, Don’t harm him. He is a good boy,my lad, no matter what you heard…’
Cyledr froze.
‘You can’t do that’ he said, his voice barely audible.
Gwyn turned to him, his eyes flashing.
‘What was that?’
‘You can’t do that. Not my father ‘
The prisoner gasped.
‘My boy….my son…is that you?’
Cyledr tried to sound reassuring, kind – but he never was that, to begin with. He was never a good son, although he wasn’t a bad one either. But something just didn’t work. Sometimes it just doesn’t.
‘I am here, father. I came to get you back home’
Gwyn’s eyes darkened.
‘Liar ‘
With one swift move he took the hood off the prisoner’s head. Nwython blinked and looked around, visibly frightened.
‘Your son is here, Nwython. He has just forfeited your life.’
Nwython’s eyes widened. Whatever they said of Cyledr, this was too much.
‘You must be wrong, lord ‘he said ‘My boy would never…’
Gwyn scowled.
‘Would never do that? He did. He swore by your life he’d do anything I asked of him’.
Now Cyledr saw the whole thing as it was. It was a trap, clearly. They had his father to make him do anything.
‘Bow to me’
Cyledr obeyed. He sank to the ground, kneeling.
‘My lord ‘
Gwyn looked amused.
‘I’ll do anything just let my father go’
Gwyn moved closer, swift as a snake.
‘I’ll make you die for me ‘ he whispered, ‘ And you will die – a thousand times, before you plead again ‘
Nwython seemed to have heard that. Everyone did.
‘Not my son, lord! Please! Take me instead ‘
‘You did nothing wrong, Nwython. It’s not your fault you son is a drunk and a murderer. It’s not your fault’
‘I’ve had my time. Let him live’
‘Are you bargaining with me, Nwython?’
‘I’m asking as a father. No parent has to witness his child’s death ‘
‘True. I am not entirely heartless. Your son swore to me’
Cyledr shuddered.
‘I did. Will you let him go?’
‘I might’
Tension was palpable.
‘I am sorry, Nwython’ his voice was soft when he spoke. ‘I am sorry. But there is no other way. No pain, I promise ‘
The old man smiled.
‘I am ready. You will let him go?’
‘Most certainly’
‘Then I can die in peace’ Nwython said ‘And I forgive you ‘
Nwython fell to the ground. Cyledr roared and darted forward.
‘Murderer!’
‘We made a deal, Cyledr ‘ Gwyn turned to him. ‘He was a man of his word. As I am. I promised I’d let you go. ‘
Cyledr stood rooted to the spot. He could not make it out.
‘Be my guest, son of Nwython. Have something before you go. You can’t refuse me. You promised ‘
He held something in his hands, something that glistened wetly and bled. Cyledr’s heart sank.
‘Be my guest ‘
‘What do you want of me ?’
‘Eat ‘
Gwyn’s face was stern.
‘Your father’s heart. You destroyed him – and you shall pay. I’ll make you die for me. Many a time. ‘
Blood dripped from his hands.
‘Go on ‘
Trembling, he took the still warm heart in his hands. He swore, alright. But this…
‘And if I refuse?’
‘No matter. I’ll make you ‘
Blood felt like steel on his lips. Blood stang as steel. Blood was everywhere. Blood was all he saw – and he could feel panic rising, he could feel his mind giving in.
‘Let him go’
He ran. Forest seemed alive, menacing, unwelcoming. In hours – or days- he collapsed under an oak tree still clutching his father’s heart. The half of it.
No one saw him again- but some shepherds claimed a strange man in tattered clothes, covered in blood roamed the forest. They called him Y Wyllt – the madman….
A maiden lived in a village by the sea. Great was her beauty, so great that many a man came to the village to ask for her hand. Wealthy and poor, noble and fair, just and witty – all flocked to the village in pursuit of the maiden’s hand. None was liked enough, none was welcomed by the maid, save the dark haired captain of the ship bearing red sails.
He asked for her hand, and she agreed – at once, for she loved him as he loved her, from the first glance. A wedding was planned for the May day, and the captain went away to find the largest pearl on earth to give to his love on their wedding day.
May Eve came, but the captain didn’t come – and the Maiden went to the beach, to watch the waves rise and fall, and to meet her beau- as it was the agreement between them- but all she found was his ship, broken and crushed by the waves. The crew was dead, but the captain was still alive. She ran to him, and kissed him a thousand times, but his strength left him, and he died, giving her a white silk pouch spattered with blood – and a great pearl lay inside.
Desperate, she cried out for Death, and he came, tall and clad in black, his long, white hair flowing in the salty wind. Handsome was his face, but bone white, and his eyes sparkled grimly. Astonished, the Maiden watched as the souls of the crewmen marched towards L’Ankou, for indeed, that was he who came to collect them.
The captain rose to join his mates, but she clung to him, and pleaded with L’Ankou:
‘Do not take him from me, take me instead!’
‘What is the use of that, gosse?’ He asked ‘The corpse reanimated, and you, dead? Have you no pity? He’s dead, and I can do nothing about it’
‘Take me then’, she asked again. ‘So that we can be together ‘
L’Ankou looked at her, and there was pity in his eyes for he was not without a heart, whatever people say.
‘Your time is not done yet. But in a year and a day, if you’re so willing, I shall come For you.’
With that, he disappeared, and the girl returned to the village. For six months she was in mourning, and on the seventh month, a ship came – and a brave young captain saw the maiden, and a wedding was planned again. The village hags warned her against it, but she wouldn’t listen.
On her wedding day, three months later, she was radiant, but the groom was missing. Long she waited, but he never came. She was in such desperation and pain, that the doctor was summoned – and that very night a baby was born, too early, too soon.
The news broke her, and she called out for Death, but he never came, for it wasn’t the time. Two months she spent alone in her house, never venturing out, but one day her strength came back, and she went to the sea.
L’Ankou was there, and she knew the time was up.
‘Are you ready?’
She shook her head.
‘Give me more time, please. I’ll.mend my ways, I promise you. Let me live for a while longer!’
He sighed and was gone in an instant, for he knew it would come to this. All humans cling to life, that’s the way of things. And L’Ankou had his patience.
For ten years the Maiden lived, completely differently, pious and kind, humble and – still beautiful. A decent man has proposed to her, and she accepted. She had no children, but she took in orphans, and became an epitome of Christian goodness.
On the Eve of All Saints, a guest came by, a guest she knew at once. Tall and pale, with white hair, glimmering in the moonlight, L’Ankou came and knocked three times – and she went out.
‘It is time, gosse, ‘he said ‘look, your light is almost out’
A candle was burning in his hand, a mere memory of a candle.
‘Must I go? What about my children?’
‘They will carry out what you have started. It is time.’
For hours she pleaded with him, but he was adamant. Finally, she looked at her house for the last time, and a tear ran down her cheek.
‘Tell me I did well, Ankou. Take me now and be merciful to those I love ‘
‘You did well, gosse. And I shall be’
She died peacefully, as all good people do – and was well remembered. What is the point,you ask?
The point is, the time comes – and L’Ankou visits everyone, ready or not. All we can do,is to be ready when he does.
…and autumn would creep in, like a maniac, eye all aglow, leaving rainy traces on the sidewalk, its patched up coat all shades of falling leaves.
And it would smell of frankinscence, myrrh and cinnamon, coffee and cloves, with a dash of vanilla, just to put a damper on suspicion. And it would wear an unravelling scarf of multicolored threads, barely woven together, and it would look shabby yet genteel, in late Victorian way.
It would creep up from the shadows of summer, that’s still lingering there, not willing to go – just to fall at the moment the fall rises up from the ground.
Its hand would be quick, and the blow – sure, its knife colder than the winds of North. And the summer would fall, softly, to the ground, amid the grass and fallen foliage, eyes wide open, slightly bemused and surprised.
And the fall would step over it, and wiping the blade on the flowy light coloured dress of silk crepeline and organza, carry on.
Threadbare clothes morphing into stylish outfit, the fall would smile softly checking his reflection in the shop windows, and, adjusting latte-coloured fedora, proceed- just to get everything right – and ready for Nos Calan Gaeaf.
You wouldn’t know him if you saw him, this dapper looking guy, but he would be there. Coming round the corner, having coffee at your favorite spot. And he would salute you silently, almost mockingly, and you would know the summer’s gone.
He is cool about it. But then, he’s cool about everything.
Into the Unknown 