Chapter 7 - Cauldron of Rebirth

by james attwood

They’d walked well into the hours of the night. It was tough going. Lewis had an arm thrown over Idris, his wound staunched as best it could be but still raw. He felt the blood loss taking its toll, only the pain and bitter cold kept him awake. Zoe and Raymond pulled a makeshift sled come stretcher behind them, an unconscious Taliesin secured to a tabletop, unaware of the bumpy ride he was experiencing. At least we’re heading down hill they both thought. This left Aria to follow Blodeuwedd’s lead, to pick out what fragments of usable pathways she could. Blodeuwedd wasn’t used to seeing the slopes from ground level but still had an eye for navigating in the dark. They trusted her guidance would lead them to Llyn Tegid, to the home of this Ceridwen.

            Blodeuwedd spoke highly of the enchantress, of her shapeshifting abilities and knack for brewing impossible potions. She’d visited her abode once in the hopes she could reverse the curse Gwydion had bestowed upon her, yet Ceridwen had told her then that the nature of a curse is personal, that the solution might only come from the man who had cursed her. At the time she had been devastated but placed no blame on Ceridwen, though she did warn them of the enchantress’s somewhat temperamental nature. Toiling away the years at a cauldron spewing all kinds of bewitching fumes could take its toll on the mind she reasoned. Pinning their hopes on this witch seemed less and less like a good idea the further they descended, but whatever had cut Lewis had cut deep. Whoever they had rescued had some connection to her, so they wouldn’t be arriving empty handed at least.

            “I just hope he’s worth it...” Raymond begrudged the awkwardness of the sled, not that Lewis could have moved much faster.

            “We couldn’t just leave him.” Zoe spoke in strained tones as she hefted the back end over a particularly inconvenient assortment of rocks that blocked their way. “Besides why would Efnysien be torturing him? He’s got to know something about all this.”

            Taliesin came crashing down the other side, Raymond only just managing to stop the comatose man from flipping over into the dirt. He sighed with exhaustion; this wasn’t what he’d expected to be doing. His children were out there, and he was carrying a stranger down a mountain. He lamented, “This witch better come through.”

            The hour continued to run late, snow and jagged rock faded into dense woodland. Neither was easy to drag the sled across, those steep descents had it sliding perilously, and now prominent roots caught it at every turn, but at least they were on the level. Even in the pitch black they could tell these woods were ancient, that every tree they walked past had a tale to tell. Crooked oaks and hanging willows twisted their shadows into haunting spectres with the flash of a torch, the winds whistling through their midst bequeathing them with ghostly howls. Aria brandished the shotgun, flitting it with paranoia at every false apparition the woods threw at them. She blamed her unease with the gun for her jumpiness, but deep down she felt her snap reactions were justified, that these were more than tricks of the mind. No natural forest would stir like this, there was something else to it.

            “What was...” Aria blinked as another figure crept past in her eye’s periphery, as if hoping to wash them of anything her mind dreamed.

            “You okay Aria?” Idris asked, worried where she was pointing those barrels.

            “I uh-there’s something out there.” She despised saying it, as if admitting her own insanity. The onset of Gelert’s low grumble convinced her she wasn’t the only one seeing things though. She looked to Blodeuwedd, “How much farther?”

            “We are close now; I can hear the water…” She paused to scan their surroundings; the whites of her eyes almost luminescent in the dark. Idris couldn’t help but stare at her, a hauntingly beautiful sight in the twilight.

            “You see them too?” Aria queried.

            “Yes. They’ve been our shadow since we entered the woods.” Blodeuwedd seemed oddly at ease, perhaps Aria had no reason to be alarmed.

            “And they are?”

            “...Lost souls.” She whispered, struck with their presence.

            “Lost souls?” Idris sounded in, he and the others were clueless. “What are you two talking about?”

            “Something we need to worry about?” Aria kept the gun trained on the shapes, now that she knew what they were they seemed to define themselves. Ghastly claws and winding tentacles became the grasping fingers and flowing locks of ghostly maidens, devilish horns the broken tools of phantasmal farmhands.

            “I don’t believe so. I’ve never seen them so close before...” Blodeuwedd seemed sad for them as they wandered aimlessly, “After all, what can a soul do without a body?”

            “I still don’t see what you’re-” Idris began to question them again before one of these ghosts emerged through a tree right in front of him, its sunken face as clear as day. “Jesus!” He yelled, staggering backwards to the floor, bringing Lewis down with him.

            Mouth agape the spirit passed straight through them, a whisper of whimpers in its wake. Lewis protested in pain as he wondered what his brother was playing at, by the time he’d been helped back to his feet however he could now see what had startled him so. Everyone could see the chilling sight now in fact, dozens of these spectral characters searching the forest for who knows what.

            “What’s going on Blodeuwedd?” Idris propped his brother’s arm back on his shoulder and tried to pull back what dignity he could, “Why are they here?”

            “I’m afraid it’s as much of a mystery to me. They should be finding their way to the Otherworld, to the afterlife. Yet they’re trapped here for some reason, unable to pass on. This is how it has been for some time now. More and more folk perish each day, doomed to add to the numbers of the lost...” She spoke as if in a dream, recounting the chaotic nature of her realm to them. She snapped back to reality at a moment’s notice though, staring straight ahead, “There it is!”

            Blodeuwedd began to dash over the exposed network of roots, the rest following as quickly as they could. They spilled out into a waterlogged clearing, Ceridwen’s supposed dwelling stood before the shores of Llyn Tegid, nestled in an overgrown garden. In the light of day, it might have appeared to be nothing but an old ramshackle hut, rotten wood adorned with withering wicker effigies spoke of a witch's long forgotten abode. The moon shone on it tonight however, illuminating the spectres that loomed over the lake’s surface behind it, lending the etchings carved into the animal skulls that hung above its door its radiance. For all the death that surrounded it, this place felt very much alive. With confirmation from Blodeuwedd they made themselves known, knocking on the small, crooked door, its face laden with dried sprigs and painted patterns.

            Knock after knock went unanswered. There were no windows to peer through, no other doors. They shouted out to no avail until Blodeuwedd spoke up, raising her voice to a level they’d never heard from this timid lady before.

            “Please help us Ceridwen or these people will die!” Her cry echoed through the forest, the only plea that could be heard in this graveyard of dying wishes.

            The door creaked ajar slowly, suspicious eyes peering from the narrow opening. These eyes glared at them one by one before resting on Taliesin. The warmth of a fire blared from within as the door swung fully open. The hunched figure of Ceridwen poked her head out of the door, checking the perimeter for any other company. Satisfied, this stout woman turned back to the confines of her hut.

            “Bring them inside.” She waddled in; her elocution shrilly pitched but wizened with age.

            They all crammed inside, taking care not to bump heads on the low ceiling or burn feet on the roaring firepit that dominated the middle of the room. As small as the confines of the hut were, its interior as decrepit as its exterior, it was oddly cosy. Simple furniture encircled the gargantuan cauldron that bubbled away on the caustic flames. Ceridwen threw down a hodgepodge of rugs and hides for Taliesin and Lewis to lay on.

            She drew up a stool, the dried stump of a tree, and squatted next to Taliesin. As short as her legs were the act of sitting down barely altered her height, the hunch of her back accentuated as she bent over her patient. She’d paid the others no mind, intent on looking the bard over from head to toe. The amber light of the flames highlighted her exaggerated features, the flickering shadows defining her bulbous nose and greying unkempt curls. This was no hideous crone though; her features spoke more of a life long lived than of disfigurement. Like one who had lived beyond their natural means but existed regardless. Her moth-eaten cloak and gruff manner painted the picture of a lady rarely visited by guests though, or one who didn’t care for them at least. Walls lined with trinkets and leather-bound books aplenty told of how this place, and this enchantress, had stood the test of time.

            “My boy.” Ceridwen spoke softly as she ran a finger through Taliesin’s hair, sunken in her place as if all the years she’d ignored had suddenly descended upon her. “Who did this to you?”

            “He’s your son?” Zoe noted.

            “So to speak...” Ceridwen murmured, staring longingly at her wounded boy. She shuffled around to finally look at her unexpected guests and inspected Lewis’s wound. “Tell me, what occurred?”

            “We found your son being tortured by a man called Efnysien...” Zoe began to explain, trying not to intervene as she saw the crone lick a finger she’d prodded the gash with. “All he could say before he passed out was your name, Ceridwen.”

            “Indeed, that is I.” She groaned as she stood up and began browsing the many jars that lined one of her shelves. Their contents ranged from fresh flowers to embalmed worms and everything in between. Satisfied with the assortment she’d reached down she resumed the conversation. “And your brother? What occurred there?”

            “How did-” The witch’s knowledge of their relation gave Zoe pause but she chose to address it later. “Efnysien again, he cut him with some kind of sword. Please can you help him?”

            “A very sharp sword indeed.” She seemed to be talking to herself again, eyeing the cut so closely her nose was almost dyed red. Idris couldn’t agree more, wiping the still wet nick in his cheek, a miniscule but persistent wound. She scooped a finger of greenish paste and began to apply it briskly over Lewis’s shoulder. Finally willing to take a moment from her busy work she righted herself with great effort. “Sit yourselves down, we’ve much to discuss.”

            Blodeuwedd had been shyly stood in the doorway until now, waiting to see if the great healer she’d once visited could recognise her. As she went to perch on the edge of a bench however she had her answer, freezing on the spot when the witch addressed her directly.

            “Not you owl. Do you remember what rosemary looks like?” Ceridwen quizzed Blodeuwedd like a teacher testing a student.

            “Yes.”

            “Good, go fetch me some for the swelling.” She poked at Taliesin’s bruised head, dismayed at how it had swollen. “Gosh I could plant you next to my pumpkins boy.”

            Blodeuwedd briskly made for the garden like a dutiful assistant, leaving Ceridwen to carry out her treatments. An awkward silence followed as they were all unsure of what to do or say, do you offer a witch help? The gurgling cauldron sputtered as it consumed a bloodied cloth Ceridwen tossed over her shoulder. She glanced back at the stupefied group with one wild eye.

            “Go on, I’m sure you’ve many questions.” She permitted the group to speak.

            “Ahem, uh.” Idris cleared his throat, nervously eyeing the viscous contents of the pot before him. “Are they going to be alright?”

            “Time and care will remedy Taliesin’s battered body, but your brother requires more.” She took a bunch of rosemary from the returned Blodeuwedd and sat with the rest of them, grinding the herbs into a paste in a bowl on her lap. “The blade that cut him was crafted with old magic; it won’t heal without magic in turn.”

            “But you have the magic? You are some kind of witch right?” Idris said, unaware of how magic worked in the slightest. Though Blodeuwedd’s glaring eyes across the fire told him he was very wrong.

            “A witch? A witch!?” Ceridwen chortled, unimpressed but amused by the notion. “Thank whatever Gods you worship I am not a witch. You would have been broiling in that cauldron by now if I were. I prefer enchantress, helps me forget my age. As for magic, yes I do have magic. But magic is not born of nothing, I would need something most powerful to undo this blades work.”

            “Right, okay, uh sorry.” Idris flustered over his words, “What do you need?”

            “Let me think...” She pulled a book from behind her, instinctively knowing which of the hundreds to look at. She flicked through the pages a while before landing on the one she’d been looking for, “Ah yes, the Sparrowhawk would suffice.”

            “A sparrowhawk?” Aria echoed the enchantress with a mixture of bemusement and pleasant surprise, she’d expected it to be a sword freshly plucked from stone or some such nonsense.

            “Not a sparrowhawk, but the Sparrowhawk!” She uttered both instances as if they were profoundly and obviously different but could plainly see she’d need to elaborate. “It is a symbol of devotion, one won in a contest between champions. I could think of no better catalyst for curing your brother.”

            “Of course it is.” Aria rolled her eyes, biting her lip as if to stop an outburst. She was running out of patience for the obtuse fantasies that were hounding her family’s every move but composed herself in the presence of this helpful character. “So where do we find this sparrowhawk?”

            “It was once won by Geraint, a great knight of Arthur’s court, aeons ago. However, with Arthur’s end so came the end of many of his men’s exploits, long held traditions they uprooted were restored by the descendants of those they once bested. Of all the places the Sparrowhawk could have ended up, it now belongs to the Knight of the Well.”

            “The Knight of the Well?”

            “An order of knights who watch over the old well in these woods.” Her words listed, as if that was the extent of her knowledge. “The legend goes that the well appears beneath a tree. Its pure waters accompanied by a marble slab and a silver bowl. Fill the bowl with the wells’ waters and throw it across the marble and... their champion will answer its call....”

            “That’s it? How do we find this well?” Idris leaned in, focusing on her every word. If he could only have a concrete answer as to how to help his brother he could set to it right away.

            Ceridwen closed her book, a look of admonishment on her face. “I’m afraid this I cannot tell you, its whereabouts shift. No book, no matter how accurate, can track it. There is one who could guide you though.” She placed the tome by her side and spoke from her own experience. “The sun will rise soon. I recommend you sleep here until then. Awake early and take the road on the other side of this lake. Walk it until you come across a side road on your right. Travel this path until you come across a clearing, its ground flat except for the mound in its middle. Atop this mound you will find a man so large, so ugly, that you would think him a giant. One eyed, one legged, rude and with a heavy club in hand you might fear him a barbarian. Do not fret however, me and the oaf have butted heads many a time, but as the keeper of this forest he will know where the well resides if it is under these trees. He will know more of the ritual you must commit.”

            The crone may not have appeared so, but she was a caring soul. She implored that they get what precious hours of sleep they could, that neither Lewis nor the children would benefit from their would-be rescuers making mistakes out of exhaustion.

            “You know about our kids?” Zoe couldn’t help but pick up on this lady’s omnipotence once more, “Come to think of it you seem to know who we are as well...how?”

            “One’s such as I have certain gifts you could say, others would call them a curse...” Ceridwen seemed to choose her words carefully. “It’s been prophesised that you would come here, strangers from another land guided by my Taliesin...” she looked to the unconscious bard, “...obviously he went wrong somewhere.”

            No wonder she wasn’t surprised in the least, thought Zoe. “How far can you see?” Her mind raced with the potential of such an ability, “Can you see where our children are?”

            “Alas, I cannot. Even if I could...” The enchantress clasped her old fingers together, her nails stained with all kinds of colourful ingredients. “To speak of a prophecy to those who would play a part in it can alter the future irreparably. After all nothing is set in stone, what I see is but one possibility. Fate is but a constraint built only by those who believe in it. I’m just an old dithering lady, who am I to decide what should and shouldn’t come to pass.”

            Zoe was confused, struggling to discern whether this fortune teller was withholding any information. Perhaps it was simply an aspect of this magic world she wasn’t ready to comprehend.

            “You said Taliesin right? Like the Taliesin? Does he have this gift?” Raymond picked up where Zoe couldn’t, he shared her confusion but felt they’d be best served working with what they knew. Taliesin was clearly an enemy of Efnysien’s, and an enemy of an enemy was a friend in his book.

            She nodded with the pride of a mother over her son. “He’s shown some such glimmers of quality, yes. But as you know from his time gallivanting with Arthur, he’s always concerned himself with how the past might shape the present. I’m sure you would know far less of our side of Wales had he not sang his poetry.” Wistful resentment undercut her pride quickly, “I just hope that he didn’t condemn himself to this fate knowingly, stupid boy. I would rather he did not join his father, doomed to wander endlessly on this lake.

            “Where was I though? You should all rest, my old aching bones tell me I must. These two are too stubborn to succumb overnight don’t worry.” Those joints creaked and cracked as she dragged herself to the back of the hut.

            “Before you go Ceridwen, could I ask one last question.” Zoe spoke out again, mind made up that she simply had to know more. “If you can’t talk about us, can you at least tell us about Gwydion? The spirits, all the doom and gloom...it has something to do with him doesn’t it?”

            Back turned to the group Ceridwen halted for a moment, even though they couldn’t see her face they knew she deliberated her next step with a heavy heart. She turned and spoke harshly, her shrill tone lacing each utterance of Gwydion’s name with venom.

            “A fool. That is what Gwydion is. A Child of Dôn, he should have known better, yet now he spurns prophecy. In a final act of stupefying heroism with his brother, Amaethon, he charged into the Otherworld, to steal Arawn’s prized roebuck and whelp. He did so without a care for the consequences. You see it was fated that this would spur a great conflict, the Battle of the Trees, in which the Children of Dôn would face the forces of Annwn.

            “Instead of ride to his brother’s aid Gwydion skulks the mortal realm, recruiting the likes of Efnysien to hunt for treasures which he hopes to bargain with. This has left the king of the Otherworld to spurn his duties, to sink both realms into a quagmire where the passage of life and death is spun in ways it shouldn’t be. All this chaos you see, is Gwydion’s doing. Your children lost, all because he believes they are commodities with which he might appease the all-powerful Arawn.”

            Zoe hadn’t expected such a tale to be ranted from the quaint old crone, she clearly bore no good will towards Gwydion. Elements confounded her still but some of it made sense, all she had to do was think to the conversation she’d had with Maeve mere days ago. This Arawn, this king of the Otherworld, had been wronged. The tales of Gwydion had painted a brash sorcerer, a fearless hero, but with Amaethon in danger he now went forward with caution. For some reason that caution had led him to them, to Maeve. That’s where her interpretations stopped. It’s like piecing together nonsense, she thought, twisting her mind into knots, wishing that Maeve were here to make sense of it.

            All she could bring herself to say was, “Why us?”

            “That I cannot say...” Ceridwen quietened down, clearly weary from this night-time meeting. “Perhaps Taliesin will know more once he wakes, goodness knows I haven’t spoken to him in so long.”

            With that she retired to the back room, a heavy hide curtain and jingling bone chimes flapping closed behind her. She left the Elderkins alone with their thoughts, though even the lure of the mysteries laid bare by the enchantress couldn’t ward off their tiredness. Before Idris could slip off to sleep though Lewis beckoned him, limply tossing the nearest cup he could reach at his back.

            “Ow...” Idris came over and sat up against the wall, lightly throwing the cup back, “And I thought you were armless.”

            “Shut up-” Lewis laughed, the motion made his shoulder sting with pain despite the dozen different medicines that coated it. “How come you didn’t tell me about Jess man?”

            “Oh that, um. Too busy losing my job I guess?” Idris quietened down with an expression of guilt.

            “You lost your-” Lewis cut himself short, afraid to break the silence of the room.

            “Yeah, uh, they were pretty obtuse when it came to getting grievance time and... well I expedited the process. Me and Jess, we just drifted apart, you know how it is...” A weight seemed to be lifting from Idris’s shoulders, but he still didn’t appear too happy to be discussing it. “I didn’t tell you because you’d just got the new house, the new job. The time never seemed right you know.”

            “I’ve got nothing but time now...” Such talk between the two was a rarity. They were the ones that brought levity to every situation, who joked to stop others from crying.

            “Honestly I’m fine, it can wait. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

            “I’ll hold you to that. I just wanted to tell you to look after them out there tomorrow, don’t do anything stupid. Don’t uh...” he glanced at Blodeuwedd, sound asleep by the dimming fire, “...get distracted.”

            Idris raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Come on man, you can count on us.”

            “I know I can, it’s just that if something happens, if you don’t come back with that hawk...” The pain persisted but Lewis wouldn’t let it hold his words back. Perhaps it’s time they both stopped acting so brave, at least around each other. “I don’t get out of this shack, Orson is left out there alone...if that happens, tell me you’ll find him. Tell me you will.”

            Hearing him talk like this hit Idris hard, of course he’d considered the worst-case scenario, but he hated to hear it from Lewis’s mouth. “You know I will.” His eyes lingered on the rest of them. At peace for just the next few hours, he thought, then we start all over again. “Besides, it’s never going to come to that man. We kick this knight’s arse, get you a sweet new bird, and bish bash bosh we’re all back on the road. Easy as.”

            Lewis smiled again; his brother’s enthusiasm could be infectious. “Best of all whilst you’re all doing that I get to have a lie in. For the first time in ten years. Man, this truly is a wondrous place.”

*

Just shy of three precious hours of sleep were had before Ceridwen stoked the bonfire, waking everyone except Taliesin with the flicker of green whipping flames. Between them they devoured the assortment of homemade oddities Ceridwen offered them as breakfast, none of it pleasant but they were too famished to care. They then deliberated on the day’s itinerary; Lewis insistent that he didn’t need a babysitter. Regardless they left Gelert at his side, Ceridwen took no offence at the precaution, herself seemingly above their petty concerns. Besides she found the dog charming, preferring the company of animals over people. They were less talkative she found, usually.

            In the light of day, the woods were far more pleasant, where off putting shadows forbade them before there were now glimmers of the early sun. Blodeuwedd led them through these aged trees, to the road Ceridwen had spoken of. They’d insisted she needn’t feel she had to, but without her they were sure they would have been lost amongst the winding branches that ran thick throughout their journey long ago. Even the road they came upon was in hiding, its edges torn up by venturesome trees and the rest of it deep under dense grass. Without unsettling ghosts and bed bound patients slowing their every step however the walk was a refreshing jaunt, not worlds apart from the countryside they knew and loved. Now on a relatively visible trail Idris tried to strike up conversation.

            “Ceridwen wasn’t all that bad, why were you so worried about us meeting her Blod?” He tentatively blurted out, as if it were the first thing he’d said in days.

            “Blod?” She questioned and turned, the flow of her flowery garbs stopping with her.

            “Yeah, like a nickname, short for Blodeuwedd. You don’t have those here?” He emphatically gestured with two fingers the motion of shortening thin air. Zoe smiled at Ray, enjoying watching her brother flounder.

            “Ah, I think I understand. I could call you…” she pondered over his name, trying to decide which of the two syllables to fall on, “Dris?”

            “I mean you could, I hate it, but you could!” Idris broke into a wide smile, relieved to be talking to her about something other than the perils of this world. “Call me whatever you want.”

            “Well…Dris.” The corner of her lips rose into a playful smile. She continued walking through the overgrown grass, the verdantly green carpet and amber leaves the perfect frame for her nature infused beauty. “I never spoke ill of her; I was merely apprehensive about the wilder side of her legend. If any of it is to be believed she is a truly powerful being.”

            “Wilder side?” The others were keen to hear this, after all they’d left a bed ridden Lewis behind with this woman.

            “Well one only need look at the tale of Taliesin’s birth to understand my...awe of the lady. Do you know it?” The response given was not that of an informed group, they’d all been told the story before, but with time such knowledge had faded. With a captive audience Blodeuwedd was happy to weave the narrative once more for them, or indeed she was simply glad to have company to talk to. She plucked a blade of grass and began to fiddle with it between her fingers. “You see Ceridwen once bore two children, Creirwy who’s beauty was wondrous, and Morfan, who was unfortunately not so beautiful. Hideous the stories told. Well to compensate Ceridwen sought to bestow him with unrivalled wisdom and poetic inspiration, a potion of Awen they called it. This was no easy feat though, taking a whole year and a day to brew in her magical cauldron. She set a blind man named Morda to tend to the fire beneath, and Gwion Bach, a young boy, to stirring the concoction.

            “All was going well until three hot drops splashed onto little Gwion’s thumb. One more drop and it would have been fatal, but he licked that thumb dry, and in doing so gained the wisdom intended for Morfan. In fear of Ceridwen’s wrath, he fled...”

*

In the hut Lewis was groggy but more at ease, the pain had subsided somewhat, his left arm feeling almost dead instead. He ruffled the fur behind Gelert’s ears as he observed the enchantress who had resumed her caretaker duties. The dog was restful, happily spread out on the fur of Lewis’s bedding. If he’s happy, I’m happy, he thought.

            “What are you doing there?” He tried to make out the many ingredients she was sprinkling into the cauldron, he could’ve sworn he saw a frog dropped in.

            “Preparing the pot so to speak, there’s more than just the Sparrowhawk to healing your cut.” She didn’t look away from the task at hand but spoke candidly. She made no effort to hide the practical side of her expertise, “Dried toad wart, fresh rosemary, pure sap, newt’s blood-”

            “That’s great, uh, great stuff. Don’t worry, I don’t need to know all the details.” Lewis felt his stomach turning.

            “I’m sure there are...” Ceridwen stared right at Lewis, almost right through him, “...other matters you’re more interested in.”

            Lewis felt like he’d been read in some way, as if he were a book opened against its will. She was right though; he’d been aching to learn more of the enemy. “Efnysien, what’s his deal? Can he...can he be killed?”

            “Ah yes, that man.” Ceridwen tipped the rest of a jar of insects into the pot and gave it one last stir. Content to let it brew a while she sat down closer to him and began to recount the tale. “Are you familiar with the tale of Branwen and her brother Bendigeidfran, bride to the Irish ruler and the giant king who saved her?”

            “Yeah, walked across the Irish Sea didn’t he?” That one aspect stuck out in Lewis’s memory, a particularly striking image. The details that surrounded this image were now vague at best though.

            “That is the one!” Ceridwen approved, she found it fascinating that accounts of her Wales had travelled to their counterpart. “Well, Efnysien was half-brother to Branwen, and my, did he disapprove of the union. The Irish king Matholwch had sailed to Harlech to ask Bendigeidfran for his sister’s hand in marriage, to forge an alliance between their kingdoms. Bendigeidfran agreed to the request, but without consulting Efnysien first. Celebrations were cut short when Efnysien, angry at his exclusion, mutilated Matholwch’s horses. Why it was foul. So betrayed did Efnysien feel that he peeled their lips from their gums, ripped their ears from their heads, cut back their eyelids and severed their tails.”

            “Sounds familiar.” Lewis grunted.

            “Why it was such an affront that Bendigeidfran had no choice but to offer Matholwch many gifts, wondrous treasures to compensate for the insult and to spare his half-brother’s life, for he could not bring himself to execute him. Amongst these offerings was a magical cauldron that had fallen into the king’s possession, created by the powerful hands of giants with Otherworld magic. It was said that if a man were killed one day and thrown into the cauldron, then by the next day he would be in good health except that he would not be able to speak.”

            The cogs of Lewis’s mind began to turn, new theories regarding this immortal brute forming with each detail Ceridwen offered. Efnysien’s speech was certainly peculiar.

            Ceridwen continued. “With the damage thought to be undone, the marriage went ahead, Matholwch and Branwen travelled back to Ireland and bore a son, Gwern. But Efnysien’s actions still ate away at the people of the Irish Kingdom...”

*

“...Gwion fled, and Ceridwen gave chase.” Blodeuwedd carried on weaving her story ardently, “Using the powers granted to him by the potion of Awen, Gwion Bach transformed himself into a hare as if it were second nature to him. To better her speed Ceridwen transformed herself into a greyhound. To escape her he jumped into the river and turned into a salmon, she turned into an otter and swam after him. He turned into a sparrow and flew away, but she turned into a hawk and hunted him down.” She could have happily embellished the events further but felt they’d understood the rhythm of what occurred. “Anyway, in a last-ditch effort he turned into a single grain of corn. But she turned into a hen, and being Ceridwen, all seeing, had no trouble finding him and... eating him.”

            “She ate the boy just for an honest accident?” Zoe asked, she couldn’t fathom Ceridwen being so cruel.

            “She did. I suppose he had rid her son of the wisdom which she had toiled over creating. But that was not the end for Gwion.” Blodeuwedd relished the role of storyteller, even if she was inexperienced. She found the role reversal pleasing, having been far too used to being the naive party. “Because of the potion he was not killed, and instead Ceridwen became pregnant! Knowing it must be Gwion inside her she resolved to kill him when he was born, however when he was born anew he was so beautiful that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She sewed him shut inside a leather skin bag and threw him to the ocean instead. That boy reborn was rescued and raised by the prince Elffin ap Gwyddno and grew to become the bard you know today as Taliesin.”

            The tale she had recounted, less as a fable and more as fact, blew them all away. They couldn’t deny that passages had reminded them of Derwen’s children’s stories now that they heard them again, but having seen Taliesin in the flesh it was a difficult origin to marry with reality. Regardless, it helped them understand why Blodeuwedd trod so lightly around this enchantress.

            “Looks like they’ve made up at least.” Raymond tried to offer some insight.

            “This occurred a thousand years ago; time heals many wounds.” Blodeuwedd explained, “After all Taliesin would not be Taliesin without Ceridwen, she gifted him her wisdom and I believe in return she has learnt kindness from him.”

            “Well, it gives me faith in that cauldron of hers at least.” Aria admitted.

*

“Eventually the memory of Efnysien’s insult became too much to live with. Matholwch and his people turned on Branwen, banishing her to a single room and beating her every day.” Ceridwen lamented at her words, as if she remembered these events personally. Lewis didn’t doubt that she’d been around for a long time. “Luckily she tamed a starling and sent it with a message to her brother, Bendigeidfran, across the Irish Sea. He wasted no time in rallying the one hundred and fifty-four cantrefi to his side, Efnysien included, and with them he crossed that Irish Sea. As you said, wading through the waters ahead of his fleet, so mighty was his stature. Upon arrival however the Irish sought peace, offering a grand feast in a hall large enough to house Bendigeidfran and his men. He accepted gladly, but Efnysien suspected foul play of their gracious hosts. One hundred bags hung from the ceiling, for flour said Matholwch, but in actuality each contained a warrior, armed and ready to kill at moment’s notice!

            “Efnysien saw right through this, one by one he felt those bags of flour, and instead of powder he felt a helmeted head. One by one he crushed those skulls, so that when the time came for ambush there were no men to do so. Tensions only rose when the prince, Gwern, was paraded before his family. He went to Bendigeidfran and was loved, he went to all the great men of the hall and was loved, yet there was one man he did not go to. Efnysien beckoned him, asking him why he would ignore him. Gwern approached him to apologise, to bury all the venom that seethed between these two families. But alas all Efnysien saw was the embodiment of Matholwch’s marriage to his sister, this union he so disproved of made flesh. Tired of playing coy to their designs of betrayal he plucked the boy up by the feet and tossed him into the flames of the hall’s fire.”   

            They both stared into the flames enveloping the base of the cauldron. What kind of uncle behaves like that, Lewis thought. It only reinforced how far he wanted to get his children away from these men.

            “Thus, a great battle broke out. Bendigeidfran and his men fought bravely yet they found themselves overcome by a never-ending army. Those who had been slain were tossed into the cauldron of rebirth, revived to battle on as soon as another were slain in their place. Efnysien was wrought with guilt, not only had he thrown them into a war they couldn’t win, but it was also his insult which had led to Bendigeidfran gifting them this formidable relic in the first place. He took it upon himself to end the conflict. Hiding himself amongst the corpses of the Irish he was thrown into the cauldron by an unwitting soldier. He braced his hands and feet against its inner walls and pushed so hard that the cauldron was shattered. So intense and violent was this act that he sacrificed himself doing it. Only seven men survived this war. They ventured home to bury the mortally wounded Bendigeidfran’s head on Gwynfryn, so that it might ward off future invaders.”

            Lewis took a moment to mull over what he’d been told, all this talk of Efnysien brought the pain back to his shoulder. “You talk about him as if he were a hero, after all he’d done.”

            “Was he not now? Are heroes not brash, unapologetic, willing to stop at nothing to protect the ones they hold dear?” Ceridwen could see plainly Lewis was in no mood to hear her lessons, yet she didn’t stutter. “I’m sure from his own warped perspective he believed he was defending Branwen’s honour, ensuring the sanctity of his kingdom. He was cruel, he was vile. But such traits often go hand in hand with so called heroes. When a hero slays a villain, does that villain’s father not consider him cruel? No heroic deed is free of judgement.”

            “I understand what you’re saying, but surely you can’t defend him?” He looked to the comatose Taliesin, “After what he did to your son?”

            “I do not defend the man, perish the thought.” A quiver ran through her body at the very notion. “If he walked through that door now I would melt his flesh, render him down to his bones and pluck out his eyes. And if he recovered I would do it a thousand times over.” She spat into the firepit, an audible bellow of flame spurring from it. “But I do not live in ignorance. I know that many to this day consider me a monster, a frightful crone used to warn children from these woods. Much of my reputation is warranted, I’ll grant that much, and some of it is not. It’s a quiet life, one I’m quite taken with, but one I’m not sure a father such as yourself would enjoy.”

            Lewis slumped; he could see what she was doing. Not defending Efnysien but warning him from falling down the same path. Whether she was simply wise or was able to see his intentions for what they were, he felt his lust for revenge exposed for what it was. The wrong kind of heroic. He appreciated her concern.

            “Well, you seem to be doing alright...but thank you. I’m just here for my son, trust me.” Lewis still couldn’t let the fact that Efnysien was still living slide, however. “You’ve told me how Efnysien died, but how did he come back?”

            “Well, that is where his story ended, or at least where it should have.” Ceridwen took a deep breath, she wasn’t used to speaking at such length but felt she owed Lewis its conclusion. “In destroying the cauldron from within, recklessly so, he somehow absorbed its magic. Its molten contents, its power of rebirth, all became one with Taliesin, and he himself became one with the cauldron. Everyone thought him dead at the time, nothing but a pile of ashes. However, long after his deeds were forgotten he awoke, his skin scorched beyond recognition and his voice silenced forever more. Baffled by his rebirth he returned to Harlech, to seek the family who had left him behind. None that he would have known lived to this day, and any who might have heard of Efnysien could not possibly recognise his hideous form. Black with soot and unable to voice his plight, he was believed to be a cursed beast and was driven from the kingdom by the very family he’d fought for. Spear and arrow pierced him, sword and mace broke him. Yet after every fatal blow he stood back up, every time a little less of the man he was and more the beast they feared.

            “He lived out centuries like this, banished from any semblance of his former life. We scorn him now but do not be under any illusion, Efnysien has been punished for his misdeeds, doomed to live an eternity without conversation...kinship...love. What Gwydion saw in this man I do not know, but he sought him out. Restored his appearance to a degree, more for his own sake than Efnysien’s I’ve no doubt, and gifted him a means of speech. A means to make his thoughts be heard out loud. Gwydion is not to be trusted, that is for sure, but I would fear this rabid beast given purpose no less.”

            Lewis couldn’t bring himself to sympathise with Efnysien. That’s tragic but self-inflicted all the same, he reasoned to himself. Any attempt to place himself in those shoes were met with memories of his father, of how he’d been taken from him. There was no forgiving that. He knew as much as he wanted about Efnysien and ruled he would seek no further knowledge, all that mattered was that he reached Orson before he did. He even entertained a fools hope that he may never meet his father’s killer again, that he still lay dead at the bottom of that valley, incapable of hurting anyone else. He wondered how Cara was coping back in Arfryn, how Cooper must be missing them. For now, all he could do was stare yearningly at the sunlight that crept through the door’s cracks, waiting patiently for their return.

*

They’d been wandering the woods for a while now, the novelty of the calm outdoors and Blodeuwedd’s stories had passed the time well. Before long they came to the clearing the enchantress had described, the mound raised proud ahead. Nature’s beauty was left at their backs when they left the treeline, however. Much of the grass had been ravaged, bare dirt left where it appeared to have been sheared haphazardly to the floor. Where sprigs of life should be the bare bones of animals jutted up, the tombstones of this forest graveyard. Scrags of fur and flesh still clung on to some, unsettlingly fresh despite how dry these remains had been picked. Deer, sheep, wolves even. Countless denizens of these woods had been victim to whatever occurred, yet only one appeared human.

            Atop that hill were the remains of an enormous man, even slumped they all felt small in his presence when they approached. Like the animals below he had been gnawed to the bone in most places, though some leather straps and his scraggly black beard had survived. True to his description they noticed a missing leg, and where two eyes should have been there was only one large, cavernous hole in the forehead of his skull. An enormous club, more a shaped tree trunk, lay by his side. Its end was littered with the bodies of rodents, flattened, and stuck to it like roadkill. Only the scraggly tails hinted that they might have been rats or mice before they met the end of this man’s death throws.

            “So much for our directions...” Aria stared down at the giant’s skeleton, disturbed but disappointed more so. Ceridwen had downplayed this creature’s manners but spoke highly of his knowledge, he was to give them detailed instructions regarding the well had they played their cards right. She furiously kicked the corpse of a rat by her feet to the mass extinction below, though as it landed she did think to herself, why haven’t they been eaten?

            “What happened here?” Zoe was staggered, the forest had seemed so tranquil outside of this circle.

            “Whatever it was could still be near, we should be careful.” Raymond wanted to study the man at their feet, Fred wouldn’t believe what he’d seen when he told him, but his instincts told him to they shouldn’t dwell.

            Blodeuwedd was speechless, what joy she’d found in their trek had been ruined. Seeing this sacred clearing, these sacred beings, desecrated in such a way made her feel betrayed. This should have been a safe place. Zoe knelt over the dead cyclops. She’d been far closer to death over the past few days than she had been all her life, and it was a familiarity she didn’t wish to further, but needs must. There had to be something this fallen keeper of the woods could still tell them. The slightest disturbance to his broad chest stirred the rustling of some hidden mass within, his skull jerked as a rat emerged from its one eye socket. Zoe jumped out of her skin and crawled backwards as a deluge of these rodents slipped out from within the giant’s ribcage. Rats, mice, shrews. All manner of vermin began to scatter into the woods.

            “What the hell!?” Zoe was white with shock but untouched. If these rats had done this they appeared to have had their fill, more intent now on fleeing the scene of the massacre.

            “Wait...look.” Aria pointed to the swarm. A steady stream flowed from a host of corpses within the circle now, yet they converged into one single file, fleeing into the woods on one defined path like an organised horde of ants. “They’re headed somewhere.”

            It seemed like a terrible idea, but they decided to follow, Blodeuwedd most of all wanting answers. Even giving them a wide birth, it wasn’t hard to keep track of the horde, the ground itself almost rolling with their passage through the woods. It was hard to tell whether they were oblivious to their pursuers or not, their progress seemed single minded despite their numbers. Eventually this conjoined snake of vermin dispersed at the foot of a small, cobbled path. They quickly lost sight of most of them, but those that they could still see lingered in the branches, their beady eyes now watching their every step. What was ahead drew their attention far more, however. A tree, at its roots a shallow well, and next to this a marble slab affixed to which was a silver bowl. It was exactly as Ceridwen had described. Covered in years of moss it appeared quaint, uninteresting even in the middle of these woods, but the specks of the silver chain and bowl that still found the suns kiss glittered with bespoke power. Zoe spared no time in stepping forwards, her hands hovering nervously above the reclaimed silverware.

            “Honey hold on, this has to be a trap.” Raymond glanced at those mice, each one’s mouth wet with blood. It was obvious they now had an audience to this ritual.

            “I know, but what choice do we have. We grab that sparrowhawk as soon as we can and run.” She gripped the bowl and set to following the first step they knew, the only step they knew. She pulled the bowl as far the chain allowed and dipped it into the well, it’s crystal-clear waters void of even a single speck of dirt. The water splashed across the marble surface. She’d followed the instructions, yet the outcome was banal. No shimmer of runes, no opening of portals. “Did I do it right?”

            They stood still for a moment, curiously surveying the woods for the slightest hint of an outcome. There was no change to see, but a bellowing crack of thunder rang out. It was so loud it echoed for miles, even Gelert stirred in the hut and barked at the darkening sky. The horde of vermin fled from their front row seats, clamouring into burrows at the base of the trees. The rolling wave of rainfall, no, the heavier thrashings of hail, could be heard in the distance. Like a tsunami of glass, it beat the canopy tops of the forest, approaching fast as it tore towards them.

            “Everyone get behind something!” Aria shouted out, slipping behind the nearest cover she could.

            Zoe tried to drop the bowl but couldn’t, it stuck to her hands like glue. “I-I-I can’t! This thing’s stuck to me!”

            Raymond tugged at his wife’s arms first, then the chain, to no avail. No sooner had he placed his hand on the silver bowl did it adhere to his skin, in his panic he’d fallen right into the same trap. Idris called Aria over, the two of them tried to shift the slab but it was immeasurably dense for such a small plinth. Blodeuwedd came forwards, clueless as to what she could do, but was stopped in her tracks by Idris’s warning.

            “Don’t touch anything Blod!” He forbade her from getting any closer, feeling his fingers stuck to the marble like they were a part of the arrangement itself now.

            Zoe felt close to death once more, this time her own. The obscured dark clouds loomed above, that crashing hailstorm growing ever closer. Her and Raymond shared a moment of hopelessness as he did his best to shield her from whatever might rain down upon them. The rest of them were disheartened to see them embrace, as if it were acceptance of the end. The day had been cold but bright throughout, yet now they froze in the dark.