Arianrhod: (distressed) I am a woman in chains. Alone in my tower I sit day after day, being hospitality to poor souls who wander through spiral waters to me, and I a mother of twins. Dylan, my first-born, he was my joy, but he loved the sea far more than me, although sometimes I saw him about my fort, a seal on the wave, now a youth in the grave, for Gofannon his uncle murdered him. Bitter my heart to lose that lad. And now Gwydion uses his cruel cunning and knowledge to get from me what I do not want to give! He uses my curse—my second son—against me, this son of my defilement, the son who came because Gwydion and Math lay with me … … my own brother and uncle! … Gwydion!!! His knowledge is nothing like the wisdom that I know, a mother’s heart overpowered by fate. I swear by all the gods, Gwydion, that you are a wicked man!!!! Now I have put a taboo on our son, on Lleu Llaw Gyffes, the Golden One of the Agile Hand, that he will never get a wife from any race that is on this earth now!

Gwydion: (furious) That wicked woman Arianrhod!!! who refuses her own son name and weapons, even wife. What good is a man without name to declare or weapons to make warfare, not even a woman to share his blanket with? But I am the Great Knower, my knowledge is not a little. I have stolen the Pigs of Annwn from Pryderi in the South. I have the ability to change shape and fly up the Great Tree into Gwynfryd, the Bright Sky World. Nothing is beyond me. Nothing is hidden. Come, Math, King of Gwynedd! Come with me, mightiest magician of them all, and we will put things right for Lleu.

Math (agreeing, resolute): Lleu is my son as he is yours. He is to be my heir when I become impotent, to rule these old lands far and wide. What good is a king without a wife? She is his power hidden in her womb. On Midsummer we will make her, at the height of our power, our power that comes from the ancient oaks, our power that comes from the sun long in the sky. We must fashion a woman fit for the Oak King, by wands and wills to break all curses, to force even Nature herself to comply!

*rest and bell rings before continuing*

Blodeuedd (innocent, cautious): Not from mother or father was I made. As for creation I was made from the essence of soils. From the blooms of broom and oak and meadowsweet, gathered at the fortuitous hour, Midsummer turned to molten gold. Math enchanted me before I was mobile; Gwydion created me, great magic from the staff of enchantment. The Lord of Gwynedd and his Druid produced me when he was inflamed with the zenith of inspiration. They gave me to a handsome man to offer him the womanly friendship of my thighs each night. I was given without a mother’s consent, a place I find—unfriendly. Wild earth behind this mask of a woman, I am trapped into form and face without release! My soul is panting like the little birds caught in a net, their beautiful songs a plea of frustration, fear on the lips … fluttering …. fluttering. What is this world of men and their laws? I am told I must act like this and like that, but what are boundaries to the boundless nature of the heart?

Lleu (admiringly, in love): Her beauty is beyond imagining. My uncles fashioned her out of the earth’s fruits. Broom blossoms for her hair, long, golden, full of the Solstice Sun. And her skin is meadowsweet! Milky white, captivating, fragrant. Green eyes a pool of oak leaves submerged in the cauldron of magic, passion smoldering in the depths. She is fertility itself, maddening to smell, encircled here in my marriage bed with my oaken staff to please herself on. I would do anything for her! She is my Flower Face, my wide-eyed beauty. She is my Blodeuedd. Surely I am made more a man with her by my side. But even now I must leave her for battle. My lance is long and keen, and Math requires his chosen heir to his court. Duty weighs more than love.

Blodeuedd (unhappy): He has left me!!! The protection of his arms leaves the marriage bed too large and empty, a coldness in the night that I never felt as flowers. He said duty weighs more than love. But what am I to know of these things? I am mistress to a strange house, full of maidens for companions who love me not for me, but because I am their lady. And Lleu? I am his companion too, with open legs all night to satisfy his manhood’s pride. … if he can last that long! Pah. Who am I to him but lust and beauty without fault?

*rest and bell rings before continuing*

Gronw (reflecting): I am the ruler of Penllyn, ‘the Stout One’ they call me. A mighty hunter of swift things, stag and roe! That was how I met her, the sweetness of my heart. I was out a-hunting in the woods, hard upon my quarry, so close behind that I lost sight of where I was until I strayed as if into the gates of the Otherworld, where I met her, my Lady of the Night. I entered another man’s territory. I fell in love with what was not mine. She opened her doors to me on the feign of hospitality, that famous Cymric hospitality that cannot allow a traveler by without some kind of refreshment. And oh, did I get refreshment!!! It was love at first sight and by the middle of the night we showed with touch and desire the very fire of our souls! She is not a frail beauty, Blodeuedd. Flower-Face they call her, but beneath the mask is a howling midnight, flowers scattered to the four winds and her love is wild, like no mortal woman, beyond taming or claiming. She can never belong to me. No, in truth, I belong to her.

Blodeuedd (scheming): Ah me. My might hunter knows me well. There is no veil of pretense between us, only the intensity of one wild spirit to another, and now I can think of nothing else! We made love three nights, three long and heady nights into the glowing embers of dawn. And on the third night, we knew without a word, there was no going back to the old life, far out-worn beyond repairing. No. No! I have a plan, a plan my heart quivers at the thought of—but I fear the old cage even more! Gronw’s love could set me free.

Lleu (bemused): My poor Flower-Face. She is so good to me. So considerate—and beautiful. In her sweet perfection, she frets over me! And of all things, she fears I will die. Haha!!! I cannot die! I am immortal, enchanted by the power of Math and Gwydion. It is not easy to kill me with a cast. One would have to spend a year and a day making the spear that was thrown at me, working on it only at sacred festivals. I cannot be killed in a house, nor outside; neither on a horse nor on foot. You must make a bath for me on the river bank, and construct a roof-frame above the tub; after that, roof it so as to make it a good shelter. Then bring along a billy-goat and station him beside the tub; I put my one foot on the billy’s back and the other on the edge of the tub. Whoever should pierce me in that position will surely kill me.

Blodeuedd (ironically): Thank the gods for that! That can be avoided easily. (aside in a loud whisper) …. I must send word immediately to Gronw, so that we may bring about Lleu’s demise! The magical spear must be made! The impossible place must be arranged!

*rest and bell rings before continuing*

Gwydion (distressed, agitated): Who could believe the tale? Yet I tell you it is true! Blodeuedd, that woman of flowers, falsehood in the face of beauty, has somehow schemed with another man and made him lord of Lleu’s lands! The betrayal to us is beyond me. WE made her who she is! How could she turn on us like this? That creature must suffer for her unfaithfulness, and for all that, Lleu has gone missing! Missing! Where can he be? I have searched far and wide, from Harlech to Aber Conwy and yet he is not there. What should I do, Math, whose ears are in the wind?

Math (perplexed): Lleu is not the only one gone into hiding. I have heard from the wind that there is a fierce black sow who goes missing every day. But I know where she snuffles and digs, it is at the foot of the Old Oak between two lakes in the valley of Nantlle. But where Lleu is I do not know. Perhaps the two are connected.

Gwydion: It is as Math said. I followed the great black mother sow all the way to Nantlle where the Oldest Oak in Cymru grows. Beneath these great boughs are maggots and rotting flesh, which she devours greedily without thought. And look! There is an eagle, the saddest eagle I ever saw. His golden feathers are black with blood, his voice unregal, and all his flesh turned putrid with disease. Could that possibly be my Lleu? My Golden One of the Agile Hand? He will not come down for any other, but I who am his true father and the one who loved him all along. Now I must do the office of a Druid. I must chant the Sun back into the Sky, Life back into Spirit. *brief pause*

Chanting:

There is an oak that grows along a slope;

Stately prince in his temple.

If I speak no lie,

Lleu will come to my lap.

And Lleu’s Flowers will wilt before my wrath!!!

*rest and bell rings before continuing*

Blodeuwedd (slowly, sadly): Gronw, my lover, is dead. Not even a stone shield could protect him from the revenge of Lleu the Agile Hand. But even more cruel were my makers. My foster-kin cast me aside, like winter-peat to be burned, like flowers parched in the heat. And now, who will mourn for me? They threw me out to the wind! Gwydion and his hateful wand have turned me into an Owl. No less than I could be, a wild bird unleashed on the dark. My wings are shadow strong, my talons as fierce as ice. I am made a creature of the night so that I am exiled from the face of the Sun, the face of Lleu who became king of this land I haunt, hunting for peace. Ages beyond remembering have passed since then, and yet the people still remember.

Long have I flown the mountains,
outcast, spying, edged in night’s cloak.
Long have I mourned the dawning,
forced to murder, a wandering brigand.

Flowers I once was, dancing and sweet,
Cheerful smiles under the summer heat.
But your wrath and honour wilted my youth,
Eager to judge, blot out the heart’s truth.

Smitten by these people,
a brutal whip, your tripping tongues:
“What more can you expect of flowers?”
“Unfaithfulness, aye, no more.”

Stripped of my beauty,
you mock this poor owl-form,
a shadow forlorn,
a penance outworn.

Can you continue to shut
your ears like a door to my cries?
Can you continue to strut
your fears like feathers, though they’re lies?

Listen to my shrieks in the dark.
They will remind you of the stark
meaning of the word “unfaithful”.

Long have I sought for shelter,
trembling, weary, robed in bitter’s cold.
Long have I sent for succor,
bending my maiden pride to life’s winter.

Return to free, my kinsmen,
know me as part of your heart,
and for that, I always remain,
haunting and hunting that part
of you that is me—our pain.

Copyright 20th September 2008 by Jennifer MacCormack

No matter what culture we come from (ancestrally or presently) or what land we live on, there is still the inexplicable pull we feel to the unknown, what German theologian Rudolf Otto called the mysterium tremendum et fascinans (the fascinating and fearful mystery) of that which is experienced as “other” or sacred. It is innate in all human beings, and every culture has their own way of expressing their relationship to and perception of this Otherness. The peoples we now call the Celts were no different.

The Welsh had their own version of the Otherworld, and it was neither a heaven nor a hell, as most people from Christian backgrounds would interpret it. To this day, it is called Annwn or Annwfn in the land of the Cymry. Although almost always translated now as “otherworld” or “underworld”, Sioned Davies in her new translation of the Mabinogi remarks that actually the correct etymology comes from an “in, inside” + dwfn “world”, which would give you something meaning “Inner World” or the “World Within”. This etymology is far more enlightening into how the Celts, particularly the Welsh, viewed the Otherworld, not so much as just something “other” but also as something inherently within or below the surface.

This land within is a place magical and different, but only subtly so, for in the stories, it is often very like our own homes and countries, experienced with heightened sensation and emotion. One only need listen to both Welsh and Irish stories of heroes like Pwyll in the First Branch of the Mabinogi or Maelduin in Immram Maele Dúin to understand what I mean. This world within defies intellect. The dry academic who would desire to break down, dismantle and penetrate the creature of the Otherworld stands confused and frustrated by what we now relegate to the realm of the Imagination. It is in our imaginations, that land beneath the consciousness, a fertile soil with far deeper roots than our own, handed on from generation to generation, through not only genetics but also—yes, stories—that we begin to encounter the Land within the land, and the Story within the stories.

The Story within the stories is hardly nameable or definable, but it can be experienced first hand, as we dream with the land and live close to the numinous presences that rise from it, like Rhiannon on her uncatchable horse out of nowhere, or the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, who live within mountains, below lakes and under ancient ring-forts. These are places very near to us, that mountain just down the valley, the grove near the other village across from ours—these are places still named for their ancient events, remembered forever because every time you walk or drive past, you wonder “Why was that place named such?” and then if you are lucky, you find someone who can tell you, and so the stories are orally passed on.

That is what a living tradition is like, and that is how it still is in Wales. Since moving to Wales, I have found that more important than being initiated into a spiritual group, is the far more ordinary but perhaps harder-won acceptance of the people who live here that really matters. It is more about Tribe and being adopted into their society, than any kind of self-discovering attainment. And the day the whole village began to call me “Jenni Fach” or Little Jenny, is one that still makes my heart ache with happiness and a pure sense of belonging. As I have lived here and become more accepted, learned the language and helped out in the community, I have experienced what it is like to be traveling somewhere with one of my Welsh friends and to say, “What’s that place called?” “Oh that is Llwyn Blodeuwedd—where Gwydion made Blodeuedd out of flowers of meadowsweet, broom and oak leaves.” Then, we get out and walk there, only to discover that indeed the place is covered in ancient oak trees and a magnificent array of wildflowers, including meadowsweet and broom!

That is the magic of Wales and her stories. The places still exist. They are not just distant lands in some out-of-time period, but real, living localities, often with the same characteristics that defined them to locals thousands of years ago. And that is again when you realize that the Otherworld is not so much a place of otherness, but the slower, deeper current of reality and memory that runs through all these places, tying them to the past, the present and the future as seamlessly as a dream.

Thus when we approach the rich Welsh literary tradition, it is important not to cut it off from its blood and breath—the enlivening principle of people and place. In this particular instance, the Pedair Cainc Y Mabinogi (in Middle Welsh, Pedeir Keinc Y Mabinogi or The Four Branches of the Mabinogi) and accompanying stories come from two medieval Welsh manuscripts, primarily the Red Book of Hergest (about AD 1375-1425) and also the White Book of Rhydderch (about AD 1300-1325), but we would be disrespecting not only the scribes and stories, but also Wales and the Welsh people themselves, if we ignored the fact that the Mabinogi, as we have it written down, is only a single literary snapshot of this long and continual Welsh Oral Tradition, which began thousands of years ago and still evolves to this day. Even in the last 100 years, with the arrival of the radio, television and movie, the actual stories in the Mabinogi are being re-told on screen or on stage, and each time there is a new interpretation, another layer of meaning added. It is then necessary that not only do we academically research the cefndir or background of the texts (be it textual examination, cultural studies, psychological application, historical observation and what-not) but also to experience for ourselves the Story, deeper and far more timeless, than the superficial stories which are merely manifestations of the Story itself, as each generation re-tells and re-defines what the Story means for them.

In this way then, to discover this Story within the stories, this Annwfn for yourself, you have to first encounter the land and stories, and the people who live with both, in their ordinariness, in all the rain and grey slate, the lilt of the Welsh accent and the quixoticness of the colloquialisms, their humour and also dourness, the very air and food and water. It is not enough just to imagine what it would be like to live in Iron-Age Wales or discuss geological features, but to see that

Our words belong to these places,

every place as a sacred site, a holy land,

every face as Rhiannon, Brendigeidfran,

Gwydion, Branwen, Pwyll, and Arianrhod,

every story reflected in the lives of our parents,

in the eyes of our children, and

in the eyes of Pryderi,

the child of our imaginations in need of rescue within.

By realizing that the Ordinary is actually just an extension of the Other, the world begins to take on a new significance. It becomes illuminated with the animate awareness of an eye that can penetrate below the surface and into the Land within the land, the Story within the stories. It can see these places and faces and the stories that include them as being actually just the same as they have always been, a kind of soul recognition, where even you yourself become part of the Story, and suddenly no longer is it just a bunch of stories or even a Story, but also your story. This difference is subtle at first, but what a difference it makes!

Our own story is just as important as say, the Mabinogi. As we live, we unknowingly speak through our daily actions and thoughts, into the world, shaping and being shaped whether that be consciously or unconsciously. Either way, there are patterns inherent in our psyches and in our natural environments that make us inexplicably human, and not just some disembodied head floating around in space—even cyberspace!

One of the beauties of stories is that they actually remind us of who we are (whether we realize it or not), of where we come from and where we hope to attain. These stories speak to the core of our own experiences, and help us gain our bearings in life, like an ancestral map passed on so that we can voyage like Maelduin on his immram to perhaps, just once, or maybe if we’re lucky and really beginning to open our eyes, see unabashedly, who we are and once again, find our place in the world so that we too, can like the heroes and heroines, leave behind a legacy, a story of our own, to guide, inspire, and most of all, remind future generations of that fascinating and fearful mystery, the mystery we call – Life.

Into the heat of noon,
A midsummer melting molten gold,
Precious flowers in a field of parched long grass,
I danced.

This was my fashioning-day,
When wands and wills gathered up the wild
And crushed the unknown and unfelt to a beautiful form,
I feared.

Beauty stained with force,
Marked with doom’s ominous woading,
For the sake of usurping a mother’s grieved and just desire,
I fell.

Petals plucked one by one,
Like a harvest of false hope and hidden anger,
Nature fell trapped and tangled into a body of mortal mud,
I died.

Death to the rising sun of joy,
Birth into a confinement of strange custom and feat,
Death and birth in one burst of awareness as
I became maiden.

Into the loss of world,
A confusion at the new senses of limitation,
Heart became choked, voice became lost to the barren land within,
I dwelt.

Who now remembers my beginning?
Who now reflects upon my baneful birth?
If you question the owl in the yew tree,
You will find the answer in the seed three.
Actions set into motion feed upon actions.
If you question what happened on Gwyl Canol Gaeaf,
Then look to the day when life un-naturally became a wife.

Reflection,
As I sit by the ebbing surface,
The road carried on my back,
The day cradled in my arms.

Reflection,
As I stride in the foaming sea-sighs,
The wind painted with bright jewels,
The world arrayed in yearning.

Heart sinks into the tide,
A peace lost into life.
Head swirls into the sands,
A sleep filled with expectation.

yng gymraeg (tipyn wahanol i’r cerdd yn saesneg… cyn i mi ddysgu’r iaith, a deud y gwir! mi wnes i sgwennu hwn efo’r geiriadur ac fy nghalon!):

Y llanw suddo i mewn fy nghalon,
Perl wedi golchi mewn amser.
Y tywod chwyldroi i fy mhen,
Tân losgi a haul-mwg.

Myfyrdod,
Cyn i’n eistedd wrth y wyneb yn treio,
Y ffordd cario ar fy olwr,
Y dydd fel crud yn fy mreichiau.

Adlewyrchiad,
Cyn i’n camu ar y môr-ocheneidiau ewynnu,
Y gwynt yn peintio efo gemau llachar,
Y byd yn gwisgo efo hiraeth.

Calon suddo ar y llanw,
Hedd ar goll mewn fywyd.
Pen yn chwyldroi i mewn y tywod,
Cwsg yn llenwi efo dymuniad.