The king of dreams is on my mind. Again, as in these past weeks. Technically, he came by before I started on the Sandman, but I’ve found out he one of likes what Neil Gaiman did. ‘He’s gone quite far, that one, ‘he said, ‘And I am grateful ‘. He seems sad at times, pensive or thoughtful, and he provokes that high pitched noise in my ears.
His presence carries you off, it’s not the presence that alerts or disciplines you. It lulls, it makes you go places.
‘Oneiroi ‘he whispers, ‘Oneiroi’. The Romans would say, Somnia. Dreams. He likes the Greek word better, and makes music around it , playing with keys, tones and midtones.
Oneiroi.
And you’re gone. Swept off. Swept away. Vanished.
Oneiroi.
That’s the magic of Morpheus, the king of Dreaming. That’s the magic of the one they call the Sandman.
Oneiroi.
If he had a tattoo, that’s the word.
Oneiroi.
Let me carry you. Let me transport you. Let me take you where I am.
You were mine once. Long time ago, when the world was young, foolish and full of hope. Between the sky and the sea, between night and day. My muse, the daughter of Zeus, my muse,with eyes like forests or the deep water, do you remember me?
Shy, quiet, pensive you were, And you would listen When I told you of humans. You would gasp in horror, Or laugh, or cry, When I told you of the men, And smile, when I mentioned Children.
You loved children, Calliope. Eutherpe did, too. You would come to the brook, And listen for hours. And asked for more.
Troubled your sleep was, Troubled with the visions Of the mortal world, And your sisters would ask me To take it away.
I did.
And no dreams haunted you, But no sleep came either. You wandered too far, You came down from the Helicon, And you came to the humans.
No understanding was there, No consolation. And no sleep came either. They tricked you, And hurt you. And never let you go.
Your sisters cried. Their tears burned the ground, Their sighs woke me, Searching I went, And found you- A shadow, a memory.
Heal me, you said. Heal me so I could See my sisters again. Tentatively, I asked, What would you give me. Nothing have I, You said, but myself.
And I took you away From the humans, To the halls of Hades- And there you rested Until you chose to return To Helicon.
But each third year, You’d come back to me- To inspire through dreams, To make them believe In us.
The dream is over, heart of mine, But the dreaming goes on. It is time to remember The paths of the underworld, And the heights of Helicon.
The arms of Morpheus, The voice of the Dream, The song of the Endless And truth of the word.
You were mine once. Long time ago, when the world was young, foolish and full of hope. Between the sky and the sea, between night and day. My muse, the daughter of Zeus, my muse,with eyes like forests or the deep water, do you remember me?
Shy, quiet, pensive you were, And you would listen When I told you of humans. You would gasp in horror, Or laugh, or cry, When I told you of the men, And smile, when I mentioned Children.
You loved children, Calliope. Eutherpe did, too. You would come to the brook, And listen for hours. And asked for more.
Troubled your sleep was, Troubled with the visions Of the mortal world, And your sisters would ask me To take it away.
I did.
And no dreams haunted you, But no sleep came either. You wandered too far, You came down from the Helicon, And you came to the humans.
No understanding was there, No consolation. And no sleep came either. They tricked you, And hurt you. And never let you go.
Your sisters cried. Their tears burned the ground, Their sighs woke me, Searching I went, And found you- A shadow, a memory.
Heal me, you said. Heal me so I could See my sisters again. Tentatively, I asked, What would you give me. Nothing have I, You said, but myself.
And I took you away From the humans, To the halls of Hades- And there you rested Until you chose to return To Helicon.
But each third year, You’d come back to me- To inspire through dreams, To make them believe In us.
The dream is over, heart of mine, But the dreaming goes on. It is time to remember The paths of the underworld, And the heights of Helicon.
The arms of Morpheus, The voice of the Dream, The song of the Endless And truth of the word.
I am the thunder, The lightning and storm. I am the wrath of Odin, I am the anger, I am the scythe of Hades, I am the last breath.
I am the earth Trembling before the end, I am the doom, I am the infinite battle, I am the warcry of Ares, I am the rage of Thor.
I am the darkness Rising from the depth, I am the rivers of the Underworld, I am the fire of Haephestus, I am the revenge of Chronos, I am the song of Orpheus.
I am the despair Chained by the Aesir, I am the malice of Loki, I am the call of Ragnarok, I am the twilight of gods, I am the new dawn.
I am old and new, Reborn and reburied, I am the battle of minds I am the key to all, I am the cold wind of Valhalla, I am the winter of hope.
I am the destruction That precedes the creation, I am the gallows, I am the Four riding out, I am the ending, I am what never ends.
I am the fires of Lugh, Burning in the night, I am the silver hand I am the night sky, I am the Tower, I am the curses of old.
I am the mist and shadow Covering the land, I am the storm-clad, I am the spear, I am the broken cauldron, I am the song of Taliesin.
I am the end of all And the beginning, I am the light of Bride, I am the seed of the underworld, I am the thorn of Crom, I am doom.
I am the restlessness Of the Fianna, I am the burning bridge, I am the collapse, I am the pain of Nuada, I am the path.
Hidden is my name, And only the few Dare use it. Loneliness is my staff, Death is my domain. I am the Wanderer.
The moment I close my eyes, they start raging inside my head. Swords cling, shields splint and break, spears pierce the air.
I see battles.
Ancient and new, bloody and unsung, battles for and battles against. Battles of glory, battles of grief, battles of despair.
I see battles.
Voices and hatred, horses and fear, bodies wallowing in blood. Battles with no hope, battles without end.
I see battles.
Limbs torn, skin slashed, heads rolling on the crimson snow. Crows cawing, crying for more. Battles of no escape, battles of gore. Battles of men.
I see battles.
A rider charges through, his steed black as the night. His sword slashes the way through the fighting men. His eyes flash, his voice rises above the tumult and strife.
I see battles.
Men feel his presence. They fall like grass under the scythe, their eyes wide open. The bull of the battle. The crow of the battlefield. Ap Nudd.
I see battles.
Everywhere. One battle or many- what does it matter, I know I shall die. Today, tonight, tomorrow, when they bind me and torment me. I shall die. All men die.
I see battles.
The end is nigh. I hear the voice cry out my name. Blood drips from my wounded forehead, blood covers my eyes. I fall, my hands numb, my throat dry.
I see darkness.
The voice chants the names of the fallen and they rise. His voice, the voice of death. They fell still doubting. They fell with no faith in them, he says. And I know I shall live.
I see fire.
He is protected, The voices whisper. He is of mighty gods. No one else survived the battle. Leave him, let him live. He is of mighty gods.
I see pain.
My pain, the pain in my broken arm, my hurting back. Someone has cleaned my wounds and dressed them. Someone is trying to feed me.
I see hope.
In a year they let me go. Snow is blinding me but I find my way back home. Staggering, stumbling, with battle still raging inside, I walk up to the hall. My last strength goes into opening the doors of the hall.
I see fire.
Men are feasting inside. Vain and arrogant in the knowing of their safety. They look at me. Incredulous, they gasp in horror. They ask me my name.
I answer.
The raven voice, hoarseand broken wings its way through the hall. Pallor discolors their faces. They think me risen from the dead.
Aneirin ydw i a dwi’n canu eto. canaf, ac ni ddaw un gân arall oddi wrthyf.
Aneirin ydw i ac yr wyf yn canu o’r llwfrgwn, bradwyr a brenhinoedd. Rwy’n canu eglwys gadeiriol.
y frwydr yw fy nghân, oherwydd ni all unrhyw gân arall leddfu fy mhoen.
Aneirin ydw i, a dywedaf wrthych am Cathraeth.
canys dyna oedd fy margen ag gwyn ap nudd
[I’m Aneirin and I’m singing again. I will sing, and no other song will come from me.
I’m Aneirin and I sing of the cowards, traitors and kings. I sing cathedral.
the battle is my song, because no other song can ease my pain.
They took the child. They always take the best. The youngest. The fairest. The happiest. The innocent.
They took the child.
Took it to the Sidhe, to the old hawthorn tree by the crossroads. From the cradle of linden and willow, to the cradle of blackthorn, gorse and heather.
They took the child.
Took it, snatched it from its mother, spirited it away. Never to return, never to be seen again, never to grow up.
They took the child.
Replaced it, changed it, leaving a dummy, a doll of grass and bark, a wooden shape. Soulless, motionless, dumb.
They took the child.
Of spite, of envy, of malice. Took it, for its mother was too beautiful, too happy. Took it, for she never believed. Took it to teach her a lesson.
They took the child.
To save it, the old bean fheasa said. To keep it from harm. Never to hurt. Took it to Tir ná n’og, she said, to stay young forever.
Nobody believed.
They took the child to drive the mother mad. And mad she became, her hair turning grey in a single night, her eyes troubled and dark. Silently she cradled the changeling in her arms, and it smiled. Silently she cried- only to laugh, and laughed only to cry.
They took the child.
They drove her mad with their magic, they cursed the village. They cursed the Smith for drinking, the vicar for cursing, the midwives for lying. Death crept in, but first they took the child.
They took the child.
Months came by, and no children were born. Months flew by, and people died. One by one. In their sleep.
They took the child.
The whisper flew in the wind, like unsettled dust. The old bean fheasa shook her head and took the last food she had to the sidhe.
The Lady in green came out, cradling the child in her arms.
You took the child.
Aye. To save it from harm. Look what your folk has done to itself. If we didn’t, it would’ve been dead in a week. She would have smothered him to death. Good thing we took him.
You never took me.
We did. But you wanted to go home. Home you went, but nobody believed you, did they? Go away, old woman.
Give me the babe.
Why should we?
Her eyes flashed.
I am his mother, she said. Give me the child.
Thunder rolled by. The lady put the child down. Gently. Slowly.
Let it find its mother.
The child crept through the grass. The child reached the old woman by the stones. The child looked at her.
Lightning flashed. The mist came.
They took the child.
Somewhere else. Long time ago. But that’s quite a different story.
Into the Unknown 