I lingered in the grove and performed a saining rite: I cut three slender branches from three birches and plaited them end-to-end into a leafy hoop. I took the hoop and rolled it in a sunwise circle around the perimeter of the groveâthree times around the grove, and then I placed the hoop in the center of the grove. I brought out my pouch which contained the Nawglan, and I poured a portion of the Sacred Nine into the center of the birch hoop; I poured the Nawglan in the triple-rayed shape of the
Gogyrven,
the Three Rays of Truth. As I did this, I spoke the saining words:
In the steep path of our common calling,
Be it easy or uneasy to our flesh,
Be it bright or dark for us to follow,
Be it stony or smooth beneath our feet,
Bestow, O Goodly-Wise, your perfect guidance;
Lest we fall, or into error stray.
In the shelter of this grove,
Be to us our portion and our guide;
Aird Righ, by authority of the Twelve:
The Wind of gusts and gales,
The Thunder of stormy billows,
The Ray of bright sunlight,
The Bear of seven battles,
The Eagle of the high rock,
The Boar of the forest,
The Salmon of the pool,
The Lake of the glen,
The Flowering of the heathered hill,
The Craft of the artisan,
The Word of the poet,
The Fire of thought in the wise.
Who upholds the gorsedd, if not You?
Who counts the ages of the world, if not You?
Who commands the Wheel of Heaven, if not You?
Who quickens life in the womb, if not You?
Therefore, God of All Virtue and Power,
Sain us and shield us with your Swift Sure Hand,
Lead us in peace to our journey's end.
So saying, I rose and left the grove, returning to the lake. As I emerged from the trees and proceeded along the shore path, I heard a light splash behind me. Thinking a fish or frog had jumped, I paid the sound no attention and continued on, tapping my staff before me. But as I neared the first of the lakeside huts, I heard the sound againâa wet plunk at the water's edge.
I stopped. Turning slowly, I called out, “Come here!”
There came no response to my summons, but the sound of breathing reached my ear. “Come here,” I said again. “I want to talk to you.”
I heard the faint dripping pat of a bare foot on a stone. “I am waiting,” I said.
“How did you know I was there?” came the reply. The voice was clear and confident, bold, yet not without a pinch of respect; the speaker was a young boy.
“I will tell you that,” I said, “if first you tell me why you were following me. Bargain?”
“Bargain,” replied my young shadow.
“Very well.”
The boy drew a deep breath, paused, and then said, “I followed you to see if you would sing.” Before I could reply, he added, “Now you must tell.”
“I knew you were behind me, because I heard you,” I answered, and then turned away quickly and began tapping along the pebbled shingle.
The boy did not accept my answer. He scampered to my side, protesting, “But I was very quiet.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “you were very quiet. But my ears have grown very long.”
“They are not so long.”
“Long enough to hear a noisy boy like you.”
“I am not noisy!” my young companion complained. And then, without a pause to draw breath, he asked, “Does it hurt your eyes to be blind?”
“Onceâat first. Not anymore.” I told him. “But I am not so blind as you might think.”
“Then why do you tap all the time with your staff ?” Though impertinent, he meant no disrespect.
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“How will I find out anything unless I ask questions?” he demanded.
“Why do you want to hear me sing?”
“I am not the only one who asks so many questions,” replied the boy under his breath.
I laughed, and he seemed to enjoy the fact that he had made me laugh. He skipped ahead of me a few paces and waited; I heard the plunk of pebbles tossed into the lake. “What is your name, boy?”
“I am Gwion Bach,” he answered happily. “Like in the song.”
“Which is your clan?”
“The Oirixeni of Llogres. But there are not so many of us as before,” Gwion said. There was pride in his voice, but no sadness.
Probably he was still too young to understand what had happened to his clan, or what it meant.
“Hail, Gwion Bach. I am Tegid Tathal.”
“I knowâyou are Chief Bard,” he said. “Everyone knows you.”
“Why did you want to hear me sing?”
“I never heard a bard until I came here,” he explained.
“And do you like what you hear?”
“I like the harp.”
“What about the songs?”
“My mother sings better.”
“Then maybe you should go back to your mother.”
“She is not with us anymore,” he muttered. “She was killed when raiders burned our stronghold.”
I stopped walking. “I am sorry, Gwion Bach. I was unwise to speak as I did just now.”
“I understand,” he replied. At the utterance of that simple affirmation, my inner vision kindled and I saw a boy with curly dark hair, slight, but nimble as a thought, with big dark eyes and a face which proclaimed every fleeting thought. Eight or nine summers, I guessed; not more. Yet he was intelligent and self-assured; his self-confidence would easily accommodate a boy twice his age.
“Tell me, Gwion Bach,” I said, “would you like to learn the songs?”
He did not answer at once but took his time considering. “Would I have a harp of my own?”
“If you mastered the art of playing itâyes, of course. But it is very difficult and you must try very hard.”
“Then I will try,” he answered, as if he were conferring an extravagant gift on me.
“Who is your father? I will ask him if he will allow me to teach you to be a bard.”
“My father is Conn, but he was killed too.” His face fell as he remembered his grief.
“Who cares for you now?”
“Cleist,” he replied simply and without further explanation. “Are you seeing me now?”
His question took me aback. “Yes,” I told him, “in a way. Sometimes I see thingsânot with my eyes, but inside my head.”
He cocked his head to one side. “If you see me, what am I holding in my hand?”
“You are holding a silver branch,” I told him. “A birch branch. You saw me cut them in the grove and plucked one for yourself.”
At this he squeezed shut his eyes and put his thumb in the center of his forehead. After a moment, he opened his eyes once more and announced, “I cannot see you. Will you teach me how to do this?”
His small face was so earnest, so trusting, that I had to laugh again. “I will teach you better things than that, Gwion ap Conn.”
“If Cleist agrees.”
“Yes, if Cleist agrees.”
We walked together among the huts, and Gwion led me to the house where he dwelt with several Oirixeni kinsmen. I would ask Cleist; we would discuss the matter in the proper way. All the same, I knew already that I had found my first Mabinog. Rather, he had found me.
W
asps droned in the shadowed grove, buzzing lazily in the midday heat. Gwion and his two companionsâclever Iollo of the Taolentani, and shy, smiling Daned of the Saranaeâsat on their birch log, peeling the papery bark and striving to remember the ogham of the trees. Eyelids closed, I drowsed, listening to the singsong recitation of my three Mabinogi.
“
Beith
the birch,” they said, “
Luis
the rowan,
Nuinn
the ash,
Fearn
the alder,
Saille
the willow,
Huath . . .
the oakâ”
“No. Wait. Stop,” I said raising my head. “Huath the oak? Is that so?”
Silence for a moment, and then Daned ventured, “Huath is holly?”
“No, but you are closer. Think now. What is it?”
“Hawthorn?” wondered Iollo.
“Correct. Continue.”
“Huath the hawthorn,
Duir
the oak,” they began.
“From the beginning,” I instructed. “Start again.”
“Again?” Gwion objected. “It is too hot to think. And anyway, I am sick of trees. I want to talk about something else.”
Another time I would have insisted they finish their recitation, but Gwion was right: it was too hot to think, too hot to move. Since
Alban Heruin,
the Highest Light, the days had become oppressively hot. The sun poured down from a white sky like molten metal from a furnace, withering every green thing under heaven. The air lay heavy, stale, and still: not a whisper of breeze rippled the lake, not a leaf stirred.
“Very well,” I relented, “what would you like to talk about?”
“Fish,” replied Gwion.
“Very well, recite the ogham of the fish,” I suggested.
“Please, Penderwydd,” Iollo said, “must we?”
I paused to consider, and Gwion saw his chance. “I want to know about the salmon,” he said quickly.
Sensing a trap, I said, “Yes?”
“Well,” he replied seriously, “why are there no salmon in our lake?”
“But you know the answer to that,” I said. “Or should know.”
“They are sea fish,” offered Daned.
“Yes.”
“But we had salmon in our river in Llogres,” Gwion persisted. “And we were far from the sea.”
“Iollo,” I said, “what is the principal difference between the river and the sea?”
“Rivers and streams are sweet water; the sea is salty.” He thought for a moment. “How is it then that salmon is found in a river?”
“How indeed?”
Gwion sensed the discussion going astray. He tried to steer it back on course. “But why are there no salmon in our lake?”
“Our lake does not join a river,” Iollo explained, “so the salmon cannot get in.”
“There is a river,” Gwion insisted. “It is on the the side of Druim Vran. And it goes under the hill and comes into the lake.”
“Is this so, Penderwydd?” Daned wanted to know.
“It is so,” I told him.
“I will show him,” Gwion offered, jumping upâ
a little too readily
, I thought. “Shall I, Penderwydd?”
I hesitated. Gwion held his breath. Sitting on my turf mound, staff across my knees, I remembered another hot, lazy day in another green-shadowed groveâa day when I sat on such a log, stupid with torpor, struggling to recall some elusive scrap of a fact, desperate for sleep and for Ollathir's approval.
“Oh, very well,” I relented. “Let us discover the answer to this riddle. To the lake! Lead the way, Gwion!”
Gwion leapt ahead. “I hear and obey, Wise One.”
“Then go!” They charged from the grove in a rush and raced down the path to the lake. The birch leaves were still quivering to their cries of wild relief when I head the running footsteps of one returning. Two heartbeats later I felt two slim arms snake round my waist and a sweaty head press against my stomach. Gwion did not say a word, but his hug was eloquence itself. I ran my fingers through his sweat-damp hair, and he darted away again.
Taking up my staff, I made my way down the well-traveled slope from the grove to the lake. I paused for a moment on the trail to stand in the harsh sunlight: I could feel it like a flame on my face and arms. The heat drained both strength and will alike; it seemed a most unnatural thing.
As I stood contemplating, I heard a shout from the lake and an answering splash as one of my boys plunged into the water. My inner vision flared at the sound, and I beheld the image of another young faceâfemale, this one, gaunt with hunger and pale with exhaustion beneath the dirt and sweat, but straight-browed, clear eyes alight with fierce determination. I knew the face; I had seen it before . . .
“Penderwydd!” shouted Gwion. “Come swimming with us!”
I made my way to the lakeshore and sat down on the rocks. I removed my siarc and buskins, and stood. The cool water on my hot feet soothed me wonderfully. Gwion saw me standing to my ankles in the water and loudly urged me to come in.
Why not? I shed my breecs and waded in. The water was a mercy. I sank to my neck, feeling the round stones like cool lumps beneath me. “Here! Over here, Wise Master,” my Mabinogi cried.
I dived under the water and swam to the sound of their voices. Soon we were sporting in the water, our voices ringing in the still, dead air. In moments, our cries were answered by othersâwild, exuberant, happy: the shouts of the boy warriors as they ran to the cool water. Garanaw, following our example, was allowing his noisy brood a swim.
We moved further from the shore to allow room for warrior-Mabinogi. “It is cooler here!” shouted Iollo.
“Watch this!” Gwion called.
I heard a splash as he dived. A moment later he surfaced again, spitting water in a high arc. “It is cold down there,” he reported.
“I can stay under longer than that!” declared Daned, and the challenge was taken up by the others. All three began diving to the bottom of the lake where they clung to the stones to keep from bobbing to the surface too soon. This went on for some time, and I contented myself with floating idly on the surface until Gwion's shout brought me back to their game.
“Penderwydd! I have found something! Penderwydd!”
I swam to the sound of his voice. “What is it, Gwion?”
“Here,” he said. The water was not too deep for me, so I stood, and he placed a metal object in my hands. “I thought it was a stone,” he said.
I turned the object in my hands, feeling the sides and rim. Iollo and Daned swam close. “A bowl!” Iollo said, “Where did you find that?”
“In the water,” Gwion told him. “Down there.”
“Lord Llew found a cauldron in the lake when we first came here,” I told them.
“How did it get there?” Daned wanted to know.
“There have been people in this region before,” I answered. I felt the patterned sides of the bowl, slick on one side where the water moss had grown like otter's fur.