Guernen Sang It:
King Arthur’s Raid on Hell
and other poems
G. R. Grove
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by G. R. Grove.
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Contents
Songs of the Far North (1995-1997)
The Hunting of the Boar of Dunadd
The Baron, the Baroness, and the Cheese
My Love, From Thee I Would Not Go
For Mistress Patrice, On Her Stepping Down
For Martin Thursthammer, On His Stepping Down
Songs of the Outlands (1999-2000)
The Brightness of Kynan and Eleanor
Dances the Stag: Praise of Kynan and Eleanor
Most of these poems are, in one way or another, SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) poems – either poems written for or about people in the two Kingdoms (West and Outlands) where I have so far lived and played, or poems about persons or events in the SCA period (approximately 600-1600 AD). The West Kingdom poems were written in 1995-1997, when I lived in the Barony of Earngyld (mundanely Juneau, Alaska). The Outlands poems were written from 1998 through November 2000 in the Barony of Caerthe (Denver, Colorado). The Welsh poems overlap the Outlands poems in time, but are separated from them by their different content; some were written for the Colorado Welsh Society, others for competitions.
Most of these poems are written in period forms, or approximations of period forms – one of my on-going quests being a search for ways of reproducing the sound and feel of medieval Welsh poetry in modern English! And yet, because the bardic art I practice is a performance art, these are in a larger sense not my poems at all, but merely pale imitations – poems preserved on paper. Until I can come and sing the real poems to you, I hope you will enjoy the substitutes.
Guernen Cimarguid / G. R. Grove
A.S. XXXVI / AD 2006
I have been Raven, I have been Bear,
I have been North Wind singing in trees,
I am the Singer, I am the Voice,
from the Beginning I was and will be.
I sing in the spring, I sing in the fall,
I sing in the darkness and in the day.
I travel the earth from north to the south,
from east to the west I follow my way.
I am the Harp that sings in the hall,
I am Bard and teller of truth.
I speak the name from which we arise;
mine is the knowledge, mine is the proof.
I am the stars from summer skies,
I am the Northern Lights in the dark.
I am the rain and the snow that flies,
I am the ashes, I am the spark.
I am the rising, brightening sun,
I am the waning, setting moon.
I am the sea and the tides that turn,
I am the marsh and the crying loon.
I am the stones that stand through time,
I am the days and the years that pass,
I am the lantern, I am the light,
I am the dark that comes at last.
I am the balance, I am the point,
I sit within the Revolving Caer,
mine is the Chair that will never change,
mine is the Song that will never tire.
I went with Raven, I went with Bear,
I went with North Wind singing in trees.
I am the Singer, I am the Song,
from the Beginning I was and will be.
The Hunting of the Boar of Dunadd
how once in a distant land
I hunted a wild and savage beast
and brought my quarry to stand,
how once in a far-off April
along the coast of the Gael
I hunted the Boar of Dalriads
and lived to tell the tale!
The stronghold of Dalriada old
still stands unto this day.
“Dunádd” still they call it
and it lies along the way
that winds ‘twixt lochs and mountains
on its way to the islanded north –
a hump-backed hill on a marshy plain,
from which there once went forth
on horse and foot and chariot fine
a warrior race and bold –
from Ireland green across the sea
they came, this land to hold.
Full many a year had I heard tell
of Dunadd’s former fame,
and so at last a friend and I
on pilgrimage there came
and as we stood below the hill
thus cautionéd were we:
from Dunadd’s mighty past there still
survive these relicts three:
within the highest court but one,
a footprint carved in stone
where once the King of Dunadd stood
to have confirmed his throne;
a rock-cut basin deep, once filled
with water, blood, or air;
and somewhere near upon that hill –
the Boar of Dunadd’s lair!
Now this last wonder gave us pause,
for warriors we were none,
yet after all our travels, we
were not inclined to run
at the mere mention of the beast,
though savage be his wrath.
And so we swallowed down our fears
and started up the path.
Though Dunadd stands upon a hill
and not a mountain high,
the steepness of it let it long
its enemies defy,
and so with toiling footsteps,
and many a pause for rest,
we made our way most gradually
toward the fortress crest.
The wind did blow, the rain did fall,
but never turned we back.
And so at last we entered in
through portals grim and black
into the lowest of the courts,
where oft in days of yore
brave warriors thronged. We carefully searched
but found no signs of Boar.
The wind did blow, the rain did fall,
as on and up we went,
past fallen stones, up broken stairs,
upon the Boar’s cold scent.
We reached the highest court but one,
and found the carven stone,
now filled with rain, which once had held
bare feet that now were bone.
The rock-carved basin which once brimmed
with blood of offering dear
now held within its deep-cut void
but water, cold and clear.
We stood upon the rock between
these ancient relicts two
and turned full round. Below us stretched
a land most fair to view.
But nowhere saw we sign of pig
or sow, much less of Boar.
At last we turned our steps toward
the fortress’ inmost core.
The wind did blow, the rain did fall
as upward still we trod,
and reached the highest court of all –
a level strip of sod
with frightening drops on either side
through wild and whirling air –
but nowhere sign of what we sought –
the Boar of Dunadd’s lair!
At last, cold, we, and sore perplexed
we downward made our way
from court to court, still watching lest
the Boar be brought to bay.
But Dunadd lay all empty,
and in that waste of stone
we only walked upon the hill
that once had thousands known.
We passed the portals grim and black,
and reached the marsh below
and crossed it. None too far away
the village inn’s fair glow
gave hope of food and fire and beer –
nor were our hopes betrayed.
We entered in, and ate, and drank,
and some time – resting – stayed.
At last, as afternoon grew late,
we wandered out, to see
the rain had passed, and in the west
dark ‘gainst the sunlight sea
Dunadd still rose, and proud and grim
flung us her challenge sore –
for well we know within our hearts
somehow we’d missed that Boar.
Then eye met eye, and “Yes!” we cried,
“Let’s go and try again,
and this time offer to the Gods,
that our hunt be not vain!”
We crossed the marsh, we reached the path
and upward made our way;
through portals grim, up broken stairs
we pressed without delay.
We reached the highest court but one,
where on the carven stone
and Footprint wet, and Basin deep
the slanting sunlight shone.
Then I brought out a precious flask
and offering poured I there –
water-of-life, fair usquebaugh,
through sun and stone and air.
And as I poured, the magic worked –
and there, so strong and neat,
at last the Boar of Dunadd lay
stretched out beneath my feet.
In the last of the afternoon sunlight
we came back down the hill,
and save for the last of our whisky
we came empty-handed still.
For the quarry of all our hunting
we left where we brought him to bay
between the Bowl and the Footprint,
and took only memories away,
while back in the slanting sunlight,
in the highest court but one
the Boar of Old Dalriada
still lay – carven in stone.
The offense, I do admit, was grave,
and grave the mien in which I ask
you charity – a heavy task! -
and pardon for the wrong I gave.
Alas, I tried, but could not save
that potent treasure, careless spilled
from out the chalice it had filled -
a benison fit for the brave!
Unfit the use of it to lave
the laden board, the stony floor -
the drink of gods, careless to pour
was conduct of a very knave!
For this abuse I pardon crave,
and not for mess or wet or stain
that washed your skirts like golden rain -
the offense, I do admit, was grave.
In silver veils the snow descends,
the stealthy winter’s slow advance –
dying-of-light this fall portends;
silence and night now rule our land.
Lit by the north-light’s eerie dance,
Earngyld again in trance will stand.
Mountains will loom amidst the dark,
behind them burning the spirit-fires.
Silver rime will cover the bark,
and dimly the spark of the dying sun
will burn through the clouds before he expires
in whirling darkness dreary and dun.
Yet in that darkness light will live –
fire in our halls and in our hearts.
Music and story and song will give
warmth and laughter to all within,
and hope enkindle from spark of arts
that summer’s sun will rise again.
The Baron, the Baroness, and the Cheese
were sitting at the board,
and betwixt them sat the Harper,
sometimes playing, but ignored.
The Baroness was carving cheese
upon a carving board
and, “Lady, might I have a bit?”
the Harper her implored.
“Of course you may,” the Dame replied,
and cut a generous slice;
“My thanks,” replied the Harper,
“though the half would me suffice!”
“A little cheese,” the Baron said,
“for me would be quite nice.” –
And the Harper handed over
half his serving in a trice.
The Baron ate what he had got;
quoth he, “This isn’t bad.
Might I have just a little more?”
The Baroness said, “Lad,
You had your chance!” – The Harper
quickly said, “I would be glad
if your lordship took the rest of mine!” –
and gave up what he had.
All of this just goes to show,
while sitting at High Table,
if you get served the thing you want,
eat it while you are able.
For your situation’s fluid, and
possession is unstable,
so “Carpe Caseum cito”
is the moral of my fable.
My Love, From Thee I Would Not Go
My love, from thee I would not go,
though duty sends me far away –
the thought of it doth fill with woe
my heart, which still doth bid me stay.
Though cruel thou art in winter-time,
and cold the face thou turnst to me
with diamonds crowned and silver rime,
yet still from thee I would not flee.
For, wanton in the woods in spring
with flowers crowned, a smiling face
thou’lt show again, and me will bring
unto thy best and secret place.
About me thou wilt riches spread,
and later bid me take my rest
within thy green and flowering bed
upon the softness of thy breast.
And yet when autumn ages thee
and life like light fades day by day
thy beauty dear I still shall see
and my departure still delay.
My love, from thee I would not go,
though duty sends me far away –
the thought of it doth fill with woe
my heart, which still doth bid me stay.
To Ugnach ab Mydno, my greeting –
long years is it since our last meeting –
an encounter which proved much too fleeting.
Taliesin Chief Bard, my pleasure
to see you – in memory I treasure
our meeting – recall you its measure?
Ugnach, I recall it most clearly –
wine, feasting and gold won most dearly
you offered, not fire and bed merely.
Yet none of those offers could lure you
to my household, wherein, I assure you,
whatever your ills, I could cure you.
Ugnach, I had cause to deny you –
yet longer I will not defy you –
invite me again, and I’ll try you.
Taliesin, you fill me with gladness!
Not to ask you again would be madness –
your refusal before caused much sadness!
Ugnach, if I may be excused,
you will not thus again be abused –
I, Taliesin, say
to you fairly I’ll pay
the visit that once I refused.
For Mistress Patrice, On Her Stepping Down
As bright burns Venus in the heavens’ zone,
or hornéd moon above the sunset’s fire
so bright above us all your flame has shone
to lead, to teach, to govern and inspire.
As Mistress over land of mist-girt seas,
and islands blue, and mountains silver-crowned,
your voice brought counsel sweet as summer’s breeze,
your hands gave gifts and honors far-renowned.
Although in days to come you journey far
to dwell in distant lands and foreign parts,
as Earngyld’s fairest, best and brightest star,
Patrice, you yet will reign within our hearts.
Though years untold from Time’s sweet cup should spill,
Our Baroness you’ll be in memory still.
For Martin Thursthammer, On His Stepping Down
Master of steel, of hammer and of fire,
welder and wielder of most potent blades,
armer and armorer, tester and tryer
of metals and men, in field and forest glades –
All these, and Baron, too, of Earngyld;
warrior and marshal, leader and stern lord;
yet also in the arts of peacetime skilled,
and maker of jewels fit for dragon’s hoard.
Martin, our lord, though from Baronial throne
you now step down, your lordship is secure
within our hearts, and not by strength alone,
but by your arts – long may their fame endure!
Though steel may rust, and memory fade with time,
Earngyld shall treasure long your hammer’s chime.
Before me now stretch roads and paths unknown
leading to distant lands, and choices fair
to tempt me here, or there, and lure me on
into that wider world of shining air –
yet green within my memory still there lies
a place so dear, a place I long to be –
a place where mountains soar to meet grey skies
and my feet know each path, my eyes each tree,
each flower bright, each stream that runs or stands,
each drop of rain in every shower that falls,
each flake of snow, each stone, each star commands
my swift return; each wind, each wave still calls,
“Teg edrych tuag adref!” – true they say
the homeward view is e’er the fairest way.
Daw llewyrch lleu o dywyllwch mawr;
’n ôl noson hiraf daw y wawr.
From great dark will come bright light,
and dawn will follow the longest night.
Here we stand in the darkest month
before the turn of the year,
between the joy of returning light
and the night-time’s ancient fear,
in the dark month, in the Black Month,
at a time both bitter and sweet –
and both of these days should remembered be
wherever Welsh folk meet.
For twice a thousand years gone by
in the east a star burned bright,
and all our gifting on Christmas Day
recalls the Gift of that night.
Light out of darkness to light the world
and Joy out of sorrow came,
and still we meet to praise and pray
in Jesus’ holy name.
But bright and joyous though this month be,
old losses linger long –
so pray for Wales on Christmas Day
when you lift your hearts in song.
For seven hundred years gone by
in bitter days and sore,
last Prince of Wales, Llywelyn fell –
and the English won that war.
And many a man and woman wept,
and many a heart did break
in that December’s bitter dark
in the snows of winter bleak.
The wind and the rain so loudly roared,
the oak trees bowed in storm –
remember those days as here you sit
in your houses safe and warm.
But though in December’s dark he died,
Llywelyn died still free,
and while his people yet abide
some remember that liberty.
And remember here at the turn of the year
both the darkness and the light,
and labor on that a new dawn
may come from unending night.
And so on Christmas morning bright
as to church you blithely go,
pause for a moment and say a prayer
for Llywelyn in the snow.
And pray as well for those who fell
all down the course of the years,
fighting for Wales, for which they gave
body and blood – and tears.
And pray that the Language of Heaven may thrive
and gain all her own land back,
and not go down into scholarly dust,
lost in a library stack.
And as you gather now in this month
and your joyous carols sing,
remember December long ago
when Wales lost her earthly king.
As light out of darkness came before
in the light of the eastern star,
so let us pray for the dawn of Wales
as we look back from afar.
From great dark will come bright light,
and dawn will follow the longest night.
Daw llewyrch lleu o dywyllwch mawr;
’n ôl noson hiraf daw y wawr.
Now a thousand years and a thousand years
all along the length of time have flown –
if the next thousand years meets our hopes or our fears,
in the Welsh countryside, the last lingers on –
in a thousand years of snow on Yr Wyddfa
and a thousand harvests from Môn’s fields,
in a thousand years of tides through Menai
and nine hundred years of Norman shields;
in a thousand years of bardic praises
that have lapped the land in a web of words,
in a thousand years of summer stars
and a thousand years of invading swords.
Some say that at last the Millennium will come,
and this time, they say, the perfection will last –
whether good lies ahead or the worst that we dread,
the Welsh countryside still remembers its past –
in a thousand years of summer roses
in St. David’s valley by the sea
and a thousand years of winter tempests
on Dyfed’s coastline wild and free,
in a thousand years’ sun-sets and –rises
that have shadows cast from Ifan’s stones
and a thousand years of life and living
all above Caerllion’s Roman bones.
And though all the years that the poets have sung of
be nothing compared to the years that shall be,
the Millennium’s sway may perfection display –
but can it excel all the beauty I see? –
in a thousand years of spring’s new lambs
all a-bleating in the Flowery Vale
and a thousand years of Dyfi salmon
in Gwyddno’s weir caught head and tail,
and a thousand years of May’s sweet leaves
for to weave a house in the Poet’s wood,
and a thousand years of winter rains
all upon the Stone where Cabell stood.
I don’t know if what comes will be better by far
than the past which behind us remembered now lies,
but I hope at the end Wales will speak Welsh again
and her Dragon red will still grace her skies
and a thousand years of snows on Yr Wyddfa
still known as Eryri’s glory will be
and a thousand years of Hafren-water
will flow past Y Trallwng toward the sea;
for a thousand years Caernarvon Castle
will see Môn’s seasons come and go
and a thousand years outside Cilmeri
a Stone will watch over Irfon’s flow.
holy one, harken to me –
songs now and prayers we are
bringing and singing today –
memories of festivals,
lightening and brightening our way –
Dewi Sant, listen now,
hear all our prayers and agree.
David Saint, holy man,
Waterman, born once of Wales –
as at your preaching she
lifted her land neath your feet –
lift her now, guard her now,
bring her to solaces sweet –
Dewi Sant, chosen one,
holy one who never fails.
David Saint, holy one,
born of two holy and pure,
Waterman, watch us and
keep us from fear of the flood –
for we come of your kindred,
we share in your own sacred blood –
Dewi Sant, holy man,
keep all your family secure.
David Saint, holy one,
whose words brought many to light
strengthen our language, the tongue
which your own tongue once knew –
she’s the language of Heaven,
may Heaven now bless her anew –
Dewi Sant, listen now,
hear us and lead us aright.
David Saint, holy one,
chosen one, hark now to me –
strengthen and help us now,
bless us and lead us anew –
for our blood and our tongue and
our homeland, we share them with you –
Dewi Sant, listen now,
hear all our hearts and agree.
aiff i lawr
i mewn i’r ddaear
sy’ dan ein traed.
Daw y bywyd
i fyny i’r pren
bywyd y ddaear
i mewn i’r dail.
Nos Lammas heno –
canu a dawnsio
wrth Frennin yr Haul
aiff dan y pridd.
Bywyd y ddaear
dan wreiddiau’r yd
bydd bywyd newydd
yn byw eto ynom.
Dyma Caerfyrddin
lle aeth yr hen dderwydd
Myrddin ei hunan
dan daear yn buw.
Mewn ogof ddall ddu
yng nghalon ein gwlad ni
dan wreiddiau ein hanes
bydd e’n parhau.
go down
into the earth
beneath our feet.
The life comes
up to the tree,
life of the earth
into the leaves.
Tonight’s Lammas Night -
singing and dancing
as the Sun King
goes into the soil.
Life of the earth
under the corn’s roots
will be new life
in us living again.
This is Carmarthen
when went the old druid
Merlin himself
in the earth alive.
In a black blind cave
in the heart of our land
under roots of our history
he will endure.
(Note: the first verse & refrain are my translation of the original; the added verses are my own)
When I see Winter’s on his way
then must I find a place to stay –
could I but find a host so free,
who’d never dream of charging me,
and who would have pork, beef, and mutton,
ducks, pheasants, oh yes! and venison,
and chickens fat, and capons too,
and lovely cheeses in baskets new!
The hall of this lord would be so fine,
with mead, ale, bragget, and good wine,
and cushions soft, fresh rushes too,
fine tapestries, and tables new,
And on them pork, etc.
The lord of this hall would generous be,
and his old clothes he’d give to me –
but better far than woolens fine
to keep a man warm are good food and good wine!
I’d rather have pork, etc.
Now some love war and valorous deeds,
and ride to fight on high-couraged steeds –
but once they’re there, by all I hear,
they’re lucky to feast on stale bread and stale beer!
No mention of pork, etc.
Now others prefer the religious life,
and gladly take the church to wife,
but though for the soul this may be good,
I’d never become a monk for the food!
They never have pork, etc.
Now love, it’s true, can pleasant be,
and many the lass has lain with me –
but when I see this table spread,
I’d rather feast than go to bed!
If I can have pork, etc.
My lord, my lady, here in your hall
I’d gladly stay while snows do fall,
and well I’ll sing and play for you –
and eat and drink the winter through!
And we will have pork, etc.
Yes, we will have pork, etc.
Maelgwn Brenin cad-ffyrnig
cad-enwog, clodfawr gad-dig,
roddaist aur a medd i ddy ddynion –
d’elynion buon brain-cig.
Estrella buddugwr bu –
teyrnwalch, teyrn-blaidd blaen ei lu.
Rhaid i’r Outlands holl canu mawl –
Marchogion gwawl, Maelgwn cu.
Maelgwn our King, battle-fierce,
battle-famous, renowned your war-wrath,
gold and mead you gave to your people –
your foes you left in the raven’s path.
Estrella’s victor was Maelgwn the fair –
King-hawk, king-wolf, a stranger to fear.
All of Outlands now sings his praise –
knighthood’s brightest, Maelgwn our dear.
Lilïan Brehines hardd
perthyn yw imi dy fardd
fel byd i gyd canu dy glod –
tecaf flodyn yn ein gardd.
Cadwa mewn dy ddwylo hardd
Outlands holl, a chân bob bardd
dengys iti perthyn ein clod –
ninnau’r blodau yn dy ardd.
Lillian our Queen most fair,
it does belong to me your bard
like all the world your praise to sing –
the fairest flower in our garden.
Keep safe within your two fair hands
all Outlands, and the song of each bard
will show that to you our praise belongs –
ourselves the flowers in your garden.
A story this that happened long ago
in the Old North, where kingdoms small and great
strove oft in war. Three people with one fate
had each their tale, felt each their separate woe.
Tristfardd
Praise was my nature, and Tristfardd my name.
For Urien Rheged as his bard I sang.
Full often in his hall my praises rang
till with his wife I found – undying fame.
I watched her through the smoke of Urien’s hall,
that lady fair, and fire ran in my blood.
Her eyes met mine, and then it seemed the flood
of our desire washed o’er and drowned us all.
We waited long, till Urien was away,
and then we came together in white heat,
and often-times thereafter did we meet
and love – until at last, there came a day
when riding on his pillion through the ford,
I careless spoke, and gave myself away
to Urien my lord. And in that way
I came to bleed my life out on his sword.
Then icy water drowned the fire that burned,
and stilled forever were the lips that praised.
Above me by the ford this mound they raised.
The river’s voice sings all the praise I’ve earned.
Modron
Modron they call me, wife to Urien King
of Rheged. Afallwch’s my father’s name
if he would own me still, after my shame –
yet I’d no choice, once I’d heard Tristfardd sing.
Fair was he? No, not fair to look upon,
but with a voice to steal away your soul.
Rugged and dark his face, and black as coal
his beard and hair and eyes – I would have gone
anywhere with him, but I could not go.
I was not free. But what I had, I gave.
Gentle his hands were, sweet his lips, and brave
his heart – O God! had mine been only so!
Often I urged his leaving, and a while
indeed he left me. Ah, I suffered then!
Though it were sin, I’d pray for more such sin,
and gladly pay the price to see his smile
once more. I have had no smiles since that day
when Tristfardd’s blood ran red through water clear.
Now there is left to me nor hope nor fear –
only the debt that daily I must pay.
Urien
Urien, King of Rheged’s far-flung lands –
so am I called. So have I made my name,
warring my whole life through. Not small my fame.
Many a bard has got gold at my hands.
Why could not that one well deserve his mead?
Warrior he was once, battle-red his spear,
and in his eyes that day I saw no fear.
Why could he not be master of his need?
Women are weak – the world knows this is true!
Modron my wife was once my battle-prize,
won by my courage – should I then despise
her for her nature? And, give her her due,
Five sons she’s borne me, fighters every one –
like to their father as is twig to tree!
No, I’ll not kill her, nor will I set her free
to take them from me. What’s been done is done.
Curses on this! Fighting is much less hard.
Rheged, arise! I’ll go to war again!
In the front line it’s I who deals the pain –
and someday soon, I’ll get a better bard.
Taliesin
I knew their tale, when to the north I came,
Urien to praise, Rheged to make my home.
Like summer stars set in the heaven’s dome,
my words will Urien give undying fame.
What of those others, Modron and her bard,
the sad Tristfardd, who well deserved his name?
Their story too I’ll tell, and give no blame
for what they did. They paid. Their end was hard.
Hard is the end of all under the sun.
All fire that burns sinks down to ash at last.
Each age in turn loses of all its past
the larger part. Of all who’ve lived, there’s none
can safely say he’s won undying fame.
But, while the bards remain, some names will burn
like those far fires that in the heavens turn
and shine forever – do you know my name?
I sang for Kynan once, and Gwallawg too,
and by my singing so their names will live.
The gift of fame is for the bards to give.
I wonder who will sing of fame – for you?
The King was sitting in his winter hall
and for some song or story he did call
to cheer the evening and make waiting sweet
until such time the company sat at meat.
Of all his bards the eldest then stood up
and said, “My Lord, by Jesus’ Sacred Cup,
there is a story that in Wales men tell
of how King Arthur led a raid on Hell
to free a prisoner and great treasure bring
back to his court.” — The King commanded, “Sing!”
“In Winter’s darkness, e’en as now we are,
my tale begins. One night there shone a star –
a burning dragon in its form and flight –
whose awful radiance reddened all the night.
The Porter came, the watchmen from the walls,
and all who saw it, into Arthur’s halls
to bring the news, and cried, ‘My lord, come see
this fearful sight, and tell us if it be
the Day of Judgment, for afraid we are.’
Then all within came out to see the star
which burned above them. Arthur gazed full long
upon it, then spoke to his courtly throng –
‘Who reads this riddle, let him prove his worth!’ —
And Taliesin Chief of Bards stood forth.
‘My King, last night I dreamed a curious dream.
I stood beside a fortress, as it seemed,
and heard within a voice lamenting long
his heavy chains and most enduring wrong.
Then I awoke. My lord, the only one
can read this riddle is Madrona’s son.
Mabon they called him – he’d no time to grow
into a longer name, as all men know,
for on the third night following his birth
he vanished – none knows where on middle-earth
he is, or if he lives, or if he’s dead.
But he must read your riddle.’ — Arthur said,
‘Then who will find him?’ — Taliesin smiled
and said, ‘My Lord, I know of tame and wild
all that a man may know twixt earth and sky,
but there is one knows more of lore than I.’
Arthur then bade him, ‘Go, and bring me word
where Mabon lies, and when your tale I’ve heard
I’ll forth and free him, I and all my men!’
And so the Bard his journey did begin.
Far in the North upon a treeless dome
the Ouzel of Kilgwri made her home.
There Taliesin came, and ‘Bird,’ he said,
‘You know the names of all men live or dead,
so long you’ve dwelt upon this mountain high.’ —
‘Not so,’ the dark-winged singer made reply.
‘I know your quest, though not the one you seek:
although a smithy’s anvil with my beak
I’ve worn down to a nut, through sharpening it,
yet you’ll no news from me of Mabon get.
But if you’ll come with me, and boldly fly,
I’ll lead you to one older still than I.’
Then Taliesin took the Ouzel’s form
and on the winds of heaven they were borne
until a forest glade below them lay
where dwelt the noble Stag of Rhedynfre.
‘O Stag,’ the poet said, ‘your ears are keen:
have you heard aught of Mabon, who has been
so long unknown?’ — The great Stag shook his head.
‘I cannot tell you whether live or dead
is he, although in truth I’ve lived so long,
I’ve watched an acorn grow to oak tree strong,
wither away, and fall, and go to dust.
But follow me; I’ll show you one who must
know what you seek, although she shuns the sun.
Take you my shape, and with me swiftly run!’
Then Taliesin took the Stag’s swift form
and ran beside him over meadows warm,
then into tangled forest grim and dark
where fungus bloomed, and moss was thick on bark
and twisting vines grew green to block the light.
There, in a trackless glen as black as night,
perched on a limb in darkness unalloyed
they found the ancient Owl of Cwm Caw Llwyd.
‘O Bard,’ hooted the Owl, ‘ I know your name,
your birth and kindred, and not small your fame.
Yet more than you by far I still do know –
within this glen I’ve watched two forests grow
and be cut down – and this one is the third.
Older than almost every mortal bird
am I – yet must I own, I do not know
where Mabon is. In my shape you must go
if you would find him – follow then and see
that ancient one who’s older still than me.’
Then feathers covered Taliesin’s skin,
his arms were wings, his feet grew talons grim.
He soared through darkness and yet clearly saw
all things about him, tasted flesh blood-raw,
became the ancient Fear that shuns the light
and knew the trackless pathways of the night.
They left the forest and through moonlight flew
o’er stony slopes, where wider stretched the view,
and came at last where on a mountain’s crest
the Eagle of Gwernabwy built his nest.
As rose the sun, the Eagle raised his head.
‘O Taliesin, long you’ve searched,’ he said,
‘for news of Mabon. I of all the birds
the Eldest am, yet nothing have I heard
of him, though in my lifetime day by day
I’ve watched the very mountains wear away
to pebbles. Still, I think there yet may be
one creature God created before me.’
Then Taliesin took the Eagle’s form
and soared above the world, o’er field and farm,
o’er forest green and mountain cold and grey
until they came at last at close of day
to a deep lake, and saw within their view,
Oldest of all, the Salmon of Llyn Llyw.
Weary was Taliesin when as man
at last he stood upon the lake’s white sand
and faced the one he’d come so far to see.
‘Salmon,’ he said, ‘traveler of lake and sea,
far you have journeyed. Tell me, have you heard
in all your life of Mabon’s fate one word?’ —
‘I have,’ the Salmon said, ‘and you I’ll tell:
his prison lies upon the Shores of Hell.
Heavy his chains, his ’prisonment is long,
and sadder than any other’s is his song.
If you would free him, I will lead you there,
but bring an army with you, for that Caer
is strong and well-defended – on its walls
six thousand stand, and brave is he who calls
its gates to pass. Of living men but one
could bring it down, and that is Uthur’s son.’ —
‘Salmon,’ said Taliesin then, ‘my thanks
be with you. One year hence between the banks
of Severn meet us, and across the sea
we’ll follow you, and Mabon we’ll set free!’
To Severn’s banks then Arthur brought his fleet
as promised, there the Salmon old to meet.
Of his three ships the first was named Prydwen,
and laden full with five-score mighty men
she stemmed the tide, Fair Beauty of the sea.
Above her Arthur’s banner floated free –
a dragon red on silken meadows green,
wrought by the hands of Guenievere his Queen.
His second white-hulled ship was Gwennen named –
far had she sailed, and farther was she famed.
Her cargo equaled Prydwen’s – five-score braves –
bright spears and shields they bore across the waves.
Last of the three, not least, was Bronwen called –
five-score bold Britons rode within her walls.
For captain she had Kai – from no man he
would take a blow without returning three.
On Gwennen’s deck stood Bedwyr, mighty man,
with his four-cornered spear and shield in hand.
In Prydwen Arthur led them – bright his crown
glittered in sunlight golden; fierce his frown,
until he saw before them in the sea
the ancient Salmon – longer than a tree
his back stretched, silver scales like shields on him
were all his armor; huge and grey and grim
he loomed before them, and he gave this call:
‘Follow who will – I’ll swim to Hell’s own walls
as I have promised.’ And he was away. —
Then Arthur blew his horn, and ‘Come what may,’
he shouted, ‘we shall follow through the foam
and Mabon from his prison we’ll bear home!’
Flying bright banners, so they put to sea –
but grimmer far their journey home would be.
Nine days and nights they sailed – no sight of land
they had, no glimpse of rock or shore or sand,
only green waves above the mighty deep
that roared like lions and rose like mountains steep
beside them, while above them still the Star
burned red and baleful in the heavens far,
till ragged clouds that rushed across the sky
brought utter darkness. They could only try
to keep their course by wind and wave and prayer
through driving rain and bitter salt-filled air,
until they saw at last through freezing dark
above the sea a tiny glowing spark
that grew into a candle, then a flare,
and then a beacon blazing through the air.
It burned upon a tower tall and black,
darker than jet, without a chip or crack
to mar its smoothness, and about it, walls
massive as mountains, iron-barred gates and halls
lit with red light and full of well-armed men.
‘This is Caer Sidhe ,’ said Taliesin then.
‘Its walls by magic long ago were made.’ —
The Salmon seemed a minnow in their shade.
‘So far I’ve brought you, Arthur,’ he cried then.
‘What I’ve begun, it is for you to end!’ —
Then, ‘Men,’ cried Arthur, ‘follow me ashore!
We’ve come to fight – let’s show them now a war!’
When all of them had brought their ships to land,
captains and warriors gathered on the strand.
Bright were their weapons and fierce their array.
Toward the gate they climbed a winding way.
Six thousand men were waiting on the walls –
not easy to be heard above their calls! –
But Arthur shouted, ‘Open now the gate!’ —
Replied the Porter, ‘Who comes here so late?’ —
‘Arthur am I , and King in my own land!’
The gate swung open. — ‘Enter with your band,
and I will guide you to my lord’s own hall.’
They came within, past walls and towers tall.
Huge beyond dreaming was that stone-built place.
The sneering Porter led them on apace.
At last they came into a gold-roofed hall –
lofty it was; hangings on every wall
glowed in bright colors, red and blue and green.
A thousand lanterns lit the splendid scene.
Within that hall upon a carven throne
a man sat waiting. Of all kings he’d known,
never had Arthur one so kingly seen.
Black were his hair and beard; his eyes shone green;
snow-white his skin, and blood-red silk his robe;
within his hands he held a gilded globe.
‘Be welcome, strangers,’ said he. ‘Tell us now
your names and whence you’ve come, and why, and how.’—
‘Our mission to you, Lord, is easily told:
we seek your prisoner Mabon.’ — ‘Not for gold
or silver will he ever be set free,
but you may win him, if you’ll do for me
one task.’ — Then Arthur grinned a wolfish grin.
‘Name but your task, and swiftly we’ll begin!’ —
‘Long years ago I ruled o’er all this land.
One day a stranger landed on my strand
as you have done. He made fell war on me
and I could not defeat him. To win free
full half my land I gave, and three things more –
three splendid gifts to seal the end of war:
the Speckled Ox, whose collar is of gold;
the Cauldron of Pen Annwn, which can hold
enough to feed this company and more;
and Llemnawg’s sword, which opens every door.
If you can go and slay my enemy
and these three treasures gather back for me,
then Mabon’s yours.’ — Said Arthur, ‘Who will guide
us through your land, and shall we walk or ride?’ —
‘Three and three hundred horses shall bear you.
Mabon himself shall be your guide most true,
but surety I’ll have for his return:
I see one here, does bright with awen burn:
his Chair’s prepared; for me he’ll sing his lays –
Mabon may go, but Taliesin stays
until to me you bring those treasures three.’
And Arthur nodded — ‘Short time will it be
till we return – but Lord, I warn you now,
when we come back, be sure you keep your vow!’
Three and three hundred horses swiftly ran
with Arthur, Kai, and Bedwyr in the van.
Beside them Mabon rode, a gold-haired boy,
beardless and slender; bright he shone with joy
to leave his prison, even for a while.
He face was fair, and Arthur saw no guile
within him. – ‘Lad, tell me if you do know,
where are we riding, and who is our foe?’ —
‘His name is Hafgan. He with you will fight
before his castle. Many are his knights
and strong his walls. You’ll never come within
unless you slay him, and the battle win.’
All day the horses bore them o’er the plains
of that wide land, which neither snow nor rain
can wet. They camped that night; at dawn rode on.
So passed three days, until they saw upon
a hill ahead of them a castle gray.
An army stood before it in their way.
Before he reached them, Arthur stopped his men
and set them in good order. Slowly then
he rode ahead with Mabon by his side.
A knight came out to meet him in his pride.
His armor shone, gold-crowned his helmet was.
‘Who are you, lord,’ he cried, ‘and with what cause
do you come here?’ — ‘If Hafgan is your name,
we ride to slay you and your land to claim.
My name is Arthur – far across the sea
I’ve come to fight, and with my blood to free
this boy.’ — ‘Have I no choice?’ asked Hafgan then.—
‘No choice.’ — ‘Then draw, and straightway we’ll begin!’
Mabon lifted a horn and blew it long,
and at its sound the force three hundred strong
charged forward shouting. Arthur drew his sword
and it met Hafgan’s. Not another word
they spoke between them all that bloody day,
but each one strove the other king to slay.
In the first hour, Kai slew a hundred men.
Bedwyr rode singing through the battle’s din
and left two hundred corpses on the field.
None could withstand him; shattered were their shields.
Menw mab Teirgwaed slew three score and one
before he fell, and Gwarthgydd, Caw’s last son,
slew twice as many. Four score men and two
was Rheiddwn’s count, and Ysgawd son of Glew
clove five-score shields before his own blood flowed.
Isgofan Hael six score and three men mowed
with his great sword before he felt death’s chill,
and Isgawn son of Ban died on a hill
of bodies; Gwydre cut two hundred down,
and splintered shields he scattered on the ground.
Gwrgi Aur Gwallt was fighting like a fiend,
blood to his thighs. No mother’s son has seen
such valor since, as they displayed that day:
mighty the price they did for Mabon pay.
Arthur was laughing, though his blood did flow;
Caledfwlch sang as she paid blow with blow.
Hafgan still fought. Long since he’d cast aside
his shattered shield, but still his fierce pride
upheld him, though his blood in rivers ran.
Of all his army scarce was left a man.
His sword-stroke missed, and Caledfwlch came down
like lightning striking. On the bloody ground
she laid him dying. As he breathed his last
Arthur struck off his head, and tied it fast
beside his saddle by its blood-soaked hair,
then raised his eyes and looked on Hafgan’s caer.
Its gates stood closed; within he could not go
for Annwn’s treasures, till he laid them low.
Grim was the evening on that field of blood.
Silk banners and bright weapons in the mud
and filth lay mingled. Wide-eyed bodies stared
as ravens gathered. None was left who cared.