Tales of Avalon Read online

  TALES OF

  AVALON

  Wisdom of the Ancient Marshes

  By

  Walter William Melnyk

  Co-Author of The Apple and the Thorn

  a Timeless Tale for the Ages Copyright 2010

  Walter William Melnyk

  First published in 2009 as Marsh Tales and Other Wonders

  All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy, or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission, with the exception of brief excerpts for purpose of literary review.

  The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted. Printed and bound in the United States of America

  This Book is a Sequel to The Apple and the Thorn Written with Emma Restall Orr

  and Published by Thoth Publications

  Ancient Marshes Press

  On the Cover:

  Lady of the Lake portrayed by Anita Shaw Cover Design and Map by Avey

  ISBN: 1451566069 EAN-13: 9781451566062 email the author at: [email protected]

  For Glyn

  My best friend and companion in life, who inspired the character of Enaid, and who surpasses the wonder of the

  Gwragedd Annwn.

  The Meaning of Myth

  There are many ways of telling the truth. This story is not true,

  in the sense that most people use that word. Yet it is deeply and profoundly a bearer of truth, told within the story of Cethin, a young Celtic herbalist, and Fianna, a priestess of Avalon, as Roman legions consolidate their hold upon Britain.

  The Marsh Tales are a collection of thirteen myths, symbolic stories of people and gods at the changing of the world.

  Part of what follows

  is historical, part is mythical, part is flight of fancy. But all of it is truthful about what it means to be human, the search for a deeper understanding, and the intimate connectedness of all things.

  Walter William Melnyk Co-Author of The Apple and the Thorn The Feast of Samhain, 2008

  The Marsh Tales

  These are the Marsh Tales, being the ancient Wisdom of Affalon, told by Vivian to Eosaidh of Cornualle

  in the days before the Romans came, and taught to Cethin the herbalist by Fianna, at the changing of the world.

  I. Morla's Belly

  II. The Dark Lady of Llyn y Cysgodion III. Doeth and the Marsh Sedge IV. The Lost Land of Iwerydd

  V. The Lights of the Ellylldan VI. The Visit of the Bendith y Mamau VII. The Old Frog of Bryn Llyffaint VIII. The Tinner and the Coblynau

  IX. Hiraeth's Tears

  X. The Gwraig Annwn

  XI. The Coming of the Lady

  XII. The Dragon's Womb

  XIII. The Last Tale

  Prologue

  A Memory of Magic

  At the passing of Vivian of Affalon, in the first year of the Roman occupation of the Brythonic lands, when Sianed began her duties as Lady, it was decided that Sianed’s daughter, Cariadh, would be sent for safety to Ynys Mon with Caldreg and his druids. went with her womanhood and gave birth to Elen, who was to follow her as Lady, even as Cariadh was expected to follow Sianed. On Mona, too, Fianna passed from maturity to elderhood. Though she never bore children of her own, Cariadh and Elen were as daughters to her. In the relative peace of Ynys Mon, far from the advancing Romans, Fianna taught them the ways of women and the mysteries of Affalon. She shared memories of Vivian, who had been Lady in her day, and of Eosaidh, the Iuddic stranger from the east who played a greater role in the fate of Affalon than any man before him. The tale of The Apple and the Thorn, Fianna called it, and it was a timeless tale for all the ages. As Fianna wove the magical words, Elen would nest in her mother’s lap. Leaning her head back upon Cariadh’s breast, she could see in her mind the wondrous scenes of Affalon as Fianna called them forth. In this way, both mother and daughter learned the Marsh Tales, the mythic wisdom of ancient Affalon once entrusted to Fianna by Vivian herself.

  “Tell us again, Fi,” Elen urged. “Tell us again how it all began!” She took her mother and Fianna by the hand and danced with them in circles on the sandy beach. Gentle waves washed the shore of Mona, as waterfowl wheeled their own circles overhead. Across the narrow strait lay the region of Eryri and yr Wyddfa. Beyond that, the marshes of Affalon that Elen had never seen. Between, in ever increasing numbers, were the soldiers of Rome.

  Fianna, teacher of the daughters of Affalon, as her guardian. There Cariadh grew to

  The three at last gave in to the dizzying dance and collapsed in laughter on the sand among stalks of sea grass. Elen, as always, was the first to regain her breath.

  “Tell us again, Modryb Fi! Tell us about when they met!”

  “Alright, then,” Fianna laughed. “I wasn’t there, you know. I had not yet come to Ynys y Niwl to be a priestess. But Vivian told me the tale not long before she left the world. It was her favorite story, and these are her very words as she told them to me . . .”

  ~

  I was stretched out on the branch of an old oak that hung over the marsh water when I saw him, a young man, ten summers or more younger than I was then. I rested my head in the palms of my hands to gaze at him through a mist spell that hid me from his view. His hair was thick and dark, but his beard had not yet lost its softness. He wore a simple tunic in the summer sun, and a trader’s sandals. And his skin was a golden brown.

  Who is he? I murmured to the spirits in the trees. He seemed not entirely real, so strange it was that he should be there at all. Without thinking, I let go of the mist, and suddenly he saw me there on the branch. He blinked his eyes in surprise, but then took a step toward me. And his question was the same as mine!

  “Are you real?” he asked. He used the common tongue of the marshes, but his words were thick with a strange accent. I sat upright on the branch, my feet trailing in the cool water. What right do you have to be here? I had not yet spoken aloud.

  He stepped back absently, then bowed low, then frowned, clearly unsure of what he was seeing. And I laughed out loud! The spirits of the marsh laughed with me, I remember. I stood, and walked along the branch to the trunk, then jumped lightly to the ground. The leaves of the old oak continued their laughter in the wind. He stood still, a strong young man, as I walked toward him. Slowly I reached out and touched my fingers to his face.

  “Why are you here?” I whispered, speaking for the first time.

  “You are real!” he said, gazing into my face.

  “Almost,” I murmured, teasing him. He was carrying a brown, woven bag. I lifted it from his shoulder so quickly he was too amazed to object. I emptied it on the grass and sat down to see what it had held.

  I looked up at him, standing there, bewildered.

  “Sit down and eat with me!” I smiled at him then, and took a big bite of his round barley bread. And he did sit, and eat.

  Did we talk that day? Lying in the grass in the sunshine, with the hum of honey bees and dragonflies, we did speak, of marsh tales and nature’s beauty, of how high the sky truly is, and other magical wonders . . .

  ~

  Fianna was interrupted in her tale by the stern old druid, Caldreg, who was hurrying up the beach. He took her aside, and the two spoke quietly, their heads close together and their faces grave with somber news. Caldreg hurried away to the cluster of huts that was their community. As Fianna turned back to the young women her face was ashen.

  “The Romans are a day’s march south of the straits,” she said quietly. “They will be here when the sun sets tomorrow.”

  Chapter One Death In the Forest

  The old druid muttered a menacing oath under his breath, his foot slipping yet again on the rain soaked path. They were nearing the top of what seemed the hundredth rise since leaving Pen Dinas on the coast three
days before. A wild wind from the northeast drove into his face, blowing cold rain under his hood and down his neck. It had begun raining in earnest as they crossed the last stream, until the climbing path itself became a treacherous waterway beneath the gold of fallen beech leaves. It was getting dark. Between the drumming of rain and the rush of wind in the bare branches, it was becoming as hard to hear as to see. Caldreg bent his gaze to the ground, letting the path carry him as it would to the top of the rise.

  In single file, also drawn into hooded cloaks against the weather, the others followed. Morfran, the only other druid in the small party and younger than Caldreg by nearly four decades, kept to the rear. Between them, three women: Cariadh, daughter of the Lady of the Lake, her own young daughter, and Fianna, priestess of Affalon. They would likely not meet Romans this far south, this close to Llan y gelli, thought Caldreg. He hoped not. They would be no match for a Roman patrol. Again Caldreg muttered a curse under his breath, and pushed on up the pathway. They were well inside the lands of the Silures, and the Romans were busy elsewhere. Perhaps only a few more ridges to cross before they reached the old hill fort that was the Silure capital. Yes, surely they would make it safely, and end the long flight that had begun so many days ago from the Roman carnage at Ynys Mon.

  If it were possible, the rain came down harder yet. Caldreg pulled his hood closer around his face, shutting out all sound but the beating rain, all sight but the mud and leaves at his feet in the growing darkness. The wheezing of his breath rose as the incline steepened toward the summit. His ankle ached from slipping in the mud, and he whispered a charm against the pain, hoping it might work. But pain was a normal thing for a body of sixty-five years. Charms could not long hold off the inevitable.

  The old druid risked a look ahead. They were nearing the top of the ridge, where the path bent around a large granite outcropping before dropping down again into the next valley. Behind him were the footfalls of his companions, softened into near silence by the blanket of wet leaves. No voices. It was too wet to talk, too cold. He looked up again as his left shoulder brushed the big rock. They were at the top. The path was curving around to the left. It seemed for a moment that time paused, the great forest spreading around him in the driving rain. And then the world changed.

  ~

  If not for the storm, the horror might not have happened. The two parties approaching each other on the wooded path might have had warning. If the leaves underfoot were dry, the evening silent, the refugees from Mona might have heard even such a small Roman patrol and taken shelter in the underbrush. Or the patrol, left out of the glories of the attack on Mona, and the Iceni revolt far to the east, might have opted out of meaningless engagement altogether and swept wide around the travelers to avoid contact. Or yet, alerted to each others' approach, both might have perceived no real threat and simply greeted each other on the path. If there had been no slaughter at Ynys Mon. If Boudicca had not so recently taken up arms. If there had been no storm. If Fianna had been leading them instead of Caldreg. If the Roman had not lost a son with Vespasian's II Augusta Legion in the Exmoor. If only.

  Caldreg felt the Roman before he saw him, for as the path bent left around the outcrop at the top of the ridge, suddenly it was blocked by the heavy movement of leather and steel. The exclamation of surprise, in provincial Latin, left no doubt. Caldreg acted instinctively, in defense of himself, in defense of the priestesses in his charge. He reached deep into the folds of his cloak, drawing a short Celtic sword. But he was no soldier, and he was no longer young. Before his weapon was half drawn a Roman gladius gleamed for an instant, wet with rain, and disappeared, itself, into the druid's robes. A bright red wetness spread over Caldreg's cloak as the Roman thrust upward, through the belly and under the ribs, severing the great artery. Caldreg had no time to understand what had happened. Sightless eyes stared into the Roman's face, a lifeless body sagged at the end of the Roman's sword, dragging it toward the ground as Caldreg left the world.

  Morfran had looked up at the sound of the impact. With a cry of rage he pushed past the women, throwing them off the path, with his own blade high advancing on the soldier who was still pulling his sword from Caldreg's lifeless body, Roman boot hard upon the old druid's chest for leverage. Morfran had the advantage of left handedness. In a sweeping arc his blade came from the sinister side and found its mark between the neck and right shoulder of the Roman. Blood sprayed from the severed artery, covering all three men as the Roman went down. But Morfran's rage left him open. Three remaining members of the Roman patrol came around the bend, already prepared to fight. It was three swords that struck him at once. He lost an arm, and his head, before he went down across the other two, adding his blood to theirs.

  The women were heavily cloaked, off the path, and might have escaped notice. But Elen, granddaughter of the Lady of the Lake, was too young. At the sight of Morfren falling she let out a loud cry, and the Romans saw the three of them. Dark forms only in the growing shadows, they also might have been armed men. The patrol, frightened and enraged by battle, took no chances. Elen's cry was choked off as a gladius pierced her belly and severed her spine where it emerged, run completely through her small body. Cariadh, trying to save her daughter, was caught by a second blade which came crashing down from above, cutting deep into her unprotected skull, spilling red blood and something pink and gray across the shoulders of her cloak. She fell with her daughter in her arms, and they both died on the path.

  Fianna, only, stood motionless. No stranger to Romans, or to death, she alone of her company felt no anger or fear, but only the deep, sad resignation that comes from an understanding of the sorrowful foolishness of men. Slowly she let down her hood, and looked quietly into the face of her attacker. For a moment the young soldier was caught in her gaze. He looked into the quiet eyes of a woman beyond the age of his own mother. More than that, he looked into quiet eyes that saw into him, through him, and understood. The rain fell around him, his comrades cursed, and the air was filled with the liquid silver smell of blood. For an instant the young Roman was almost changed. Then the blood lust of the moment overcame all. He thrust his sword slowly and intently into Fianna's belly, and her world went dark. On the path, the only sound was the rain.

  In silence the three soldiers cleaned their weapons, wiped the blood as best they could from their battle leathers. They lashed the dead decurion to a litter fashioned from saplings, and returned quietly down the path toward their camp. At the crest of the ridge, near the rock outcrop and the twisting path, it was silent but for the rain and a soft hush of wind in the beech branches. Bodies lay scattered, on and off the track. So much blood. It lay pooled darkly in the dark of night, unseen, but the harsh metallic scent of it was everywhere. Scavengers of the forest, driven into dark dens by the storm, had not yet made their discovery.

  ~

  Far away to the south, on a mist shrouded island in a low, inland sea, the Lady stood still as stone, blood drained from her face, heart nearly stopped. Her eyes looked off into the distance, and their terror told of the sight they saw. "Priestess," she whispered to the young girl at her side, "They are dead. Cariadh and Elen. What will become of us?"

  The young girl placed a caring hand upon Sianed's arm. "My Lady," she said, and sat long in silence.

  ~

  The clouds parted over the last ridge before Llan y gelli. In the young night the first crescent of a winter moon hung low over the western hills. It was now truly silent, save for the slow, soft breathing of the bearer of the tales, the priestess of Affalon who once knew Sianed, and even Vivian. Fianna yet lived.

  Chapter Two

  In the House of Healing

  She awoke to the dark smell of wood-smoke and thatch. Before she opened her eyes she knew she was lying on a rough cot in a small roundhouse, and memories of Ynys y Niwl came flooding back. She was on the Isle of Mist, in the house of the priestesses. Outside she could hear a goat naying, chickens complaining loudly, perhaps disturbed by the running children
whose playful laughter burst over all else. She stretched, the long, slow stretch of age upon waking, and a sharp, screaming pain cut through her left side. Suddenly she remembered, her eyes opening wide with fear even though her body remained paralyzed by the pain. It was not Ynys y Niwl, nor the dark, wet trackway in the forest where she had fallen, and there were no children. There was light, though dim, and overhead the shadows of a thatch roof tilted and turned in her delirium, ghostly white smoke from damp firewood hanging beneath the straw before seeping into it and filtering out into the air. She tried again to move. Again the pain tore into her side, blinding pain that cheated what sight she had. As the small room swam sideways above her, all once again went dark, and she fell back into a fitful sleep.

  The dream came again. Women, naked and painted, screaming, and dripping oaths. Men waiting silently, in the brush line behind the sand, with what blades they could muster. Rushing forward to meet the boats as they landed . . .

  How long she lay in the balance between dream and reality she did not know. Over and over the scenes of massacre swirled before her, the ringing of steel, the sickening slice of sundered flesh, the crack of bone; shouts of anger, and cries of fear.

  “Cariadh!” she cried out. Where was Cariadh? “Elen!”

  She thrashed about wildly on her cot, and the movement brought back the tearing pain, waking her from the horror. Suddenly she sat up, eyes wide open. “Cariadh!” she shouted, and screamed with pain.

  “Lady,” said a male voice behind her. A strong arm went about her shoulder, holding her upright, keeping her from falling.

  Her breath came in ragged gasps, tears filling her eyes and flowing down her face. Though her eyes were open she did not see anything except the vanishing dream. “Caldreg,” she said, “Caldreg, is that you?”

  “No, my Lady,” came the soft reply. “I know not this Caldreg, but I am Cethin, the herbalist. And you are in my care, such as it is.” A young, strong hand came into her struggling focus, holding a wooden goblet. “Drink, my Lady,” Cethin offered. “The sword injured no vital organs. You may drink. The water is cool, mixed with a little chamomile, and some lavender.”