The following tales are by Elen Sentier. All copyright is Elen Sentier. The tales may not be reproduced without permission. If you would like to reproduce them email Elen.

The Enchanter's Tale    Merlin

The Enchanter’s Tale

Math was a king, like all kings, and when the Lady of the Land, his daughter, marries he must give way to the husband of her choice. Math didn’t like this idea at all. He prepared a tower in the silver sea off Gwynedd, took the girl to it and locked her in.

Within the tower, he believed, was all she could ever want, but he was wrong. He had forgotten that Arianrhod could see beyond her tower, could see the land and loved it.

‘Brother!’ she cried out to the silver mirror of the sea and sky. ‘Brother, come and help me.’

And he came. Gwydion, master of magic, came

With his own wiles he entered the tower and she allowed him in. He came to her and loved her.

But Gwydion had his own score to settle with Math. Math had called him to steal the pigs of Pryderi for him and Gwydion had done this with the help of his youngest brother, Gilfaethwy. And Gilfaethwy had fallen in love.

When Math had locked Arianrhod in the tower he had given himself a problem. A king may only be a king by right of the land. A king becomes a king by putting his foot into the stone of the land, the footprint of his forebears, his ancestors and Math, as we know, was determined to be the last ancestor, the elder god. So he no longer had the lady of the land at his side to make him real. But Math was clever. As he could no longer put his foot into the stone of kingship, because he had put Arianrhod away, he found another way. He took a maid, Goewin was her name, and bade her never open herself to any man, and he put his feet into her lap. And so her life was. Unless Math went to war his feet were in the maiden’s lap and so he held onto his kingship.

Until Gilfaethwy fell in love with his maid.

Gwydion laughed. He saw, through his brother’s lust, a way to undo Math. He helped Gilfaethwy to the maiden’s bed and Gilfaethwy took her maidenhead.

And Math no longer had a place to put his feet. He could feel his death creeping up on him, he could feel it in his bones.

‘Aya!’ he cried. ‘A maid I must have. Bring me a maid!’

‘Any maid?’ Gwydion asked.

‘A maid! A maid! My kingdom for a maid!’ Math screamed.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Gwydion muttered and he laughed.

He went to the tower and he caused it to spin and spin. When it was spinning so fast it stood still he called to Arianrhod and, through the spinning tower, she was able to come out. He brought her to Math, wrapped in his own cloak of illusion, and Math saw the maiden.

‘Art thou a maid?’ he asked her.

And Arianrhod cast down her eyes demurely, ‘I know not but that I am,’ she told him.

‘Come!’ Math cried. ‘Step over my rod.’

And she did. And as she did a golden child spilled from her skirts onto Math’s floor. And, as she stepped away, a little something fell behind. Quick as a flash, Gwydion scooped it up and hid it in his chest before anyone could see.

Math was aghast. He realised his time was short and he would have to act cleverly if he was to live. He took the little golden boy and led him to the sea. He poured the water on him and cried out, ‘I name the Dylan son of Wave.’. And the golden child heard him and leapt straight into the sea. So clever Math had taken him from the land.

Arianrhod ran back to her tower and set it spinning as Gwydion had showed her, so none could enter, for she was afraid.

On a night, as Gwydion slept, he heard a knocking and a knocking in his chest. He opened it and there, within, was an infant boy reaching up his arms. Gwydion took him and loved him and reared him for a year and a day, until he was as tall and strong as a full grown boy.

Arianrhod looked into her silver mirror of the sea and the sky and she saw the boy.

‘He’s mine!’ she said. ‘and he shall have no name and no arms until I give them to him.’

And Gwydion heard her, and he laughed, for he knew it to be true.

He took and made a boat all out of sea wrack. And out of the weed he made leather and he coloured it like the sun. He took the boy and sailed within sight of the tower, then he put upon them both his cloak of illusion and they began to make shoes, the most beautiful shoes in the world. And Arianrhod saw and she wanted them.

‘How now,’ she called. ‘wilt thou make me a pair of shoes?’

‘Aye, lady, an’ you come and put your foot in my boat.’

And so she came.

Gwydion took her measure and began to make he the golden shoes.

The boy was bored. A wren flew past and, faster than light, he aimed and hit the bird.

‘Oh my!’ cried Arianrhod, ‘that boy is fair and skilled of hand.’

And Gwydion laughed.

‘Hast named him, sister mine,’ he said, and he dropped the cloak of illusion. ‘Llew Llaw Gyffes he shall be.’

And Arianrhod returned to the safety of her tower.

And Llew grew into a fine man.

Gwydion took again to the tower, under the cloak of illusion. And he put about the sight of a great army bearing down upon it and Arianrhod took them in.

‘Here!’ she cried. ‘am I glad for thy help.’ And she took sword and spear and shield and coat and armed the boy herself.

And Gwydion laughed. He dropped the cloak of illusion and sent the attackers up in smoke. And Arianrhod joined him in his laughter.

‘Hast helped me do two of the needed things but how shall we get him a wife? for I see his geas and there is no wife of mortal blood within it.’

And Gwydion did not laugh for he knew that it was true.

He went back to math and said, ‘Thou hast still need of a maid to hold thy feet in the rite of kings but none comes forth.’

And Math glowered at him for his bones ached with age.

And Gwydion put his hand on Math in solicitude. ‘Let us together fashion thee a maid out of the oak flowers and the broom and the meadowsweet.’

And Math’s brow lightened and he helped Gwydion with all his might. They called out to the soul of the Queen of the Night to inspire the body. And she came. And her heart-shaped face was like a flower, and it was like an owl, and so Gwydion whispered that her name was Blodeuwedd. And she heard and smiled upon him for this was true.

Gwydion brought Llew to the court and he saw her holding Math’s feet in her lap. And she saw him. And his heart was taken, he loved her. And Math, all the gods help him, allowed it for he was feeling the truth of his plight in his bones and knew there was in truth no hope for him. But he knew he would have one last try.

Blodeuwedd knew her work. She delved into Llew’s soul and found it wanting. She knew he had never yet offered himself for the land but only taken from her. He spent his life in pleasure.

‘Husband,’ she said to him one day. ‘How is that thou may be killed?’

‘Why,’ he laughed, I cannot be killed. Or not easily. Indeed it would take great ingenuity to fix all the time and space for me to be killed.’

‘Marry pray, and how is this?’

‘I cannot be killed within or without, on land nor water.’

‘Why, that is good,’ Blodeuwedd told him.

‘Aye. To kill me he who would must make a thatched hut open upon all sides and therein put a bath. If I were to bathe in it then there would have to be a goat beside the bath and I would step up, one foot upon the side of the bath and the other on the goat. Then, just at that very moment, he would have the chance to kill me. But only if he had a weapon which had been hammered only on the sacred nights.’

‘I do not think that is likely,’ Blodeuwedd cast down her eyes.

She went to Math and told him. Math called up the one who was the tannaiste and said ‘I have a task for thee, might cost thy life.’

‘That is my geas,’ said the tannaiste.

And Blodeuwedd took him into her bed and loved him. And he loved her. she built the thatched hut and set within it a bath. He took and made himself a spear, hammering it on the sacred nights. And, one day, they were ready.

‘Husband,’ Blodeuwedd called.

He came and saw her dressed in a robe which clung to her figure. She smelled of rose leaves and honey.

‘Come play with me,’ she said, and took him to the bath. There she washed him and fondled him, and her robe got wet and clung even more tightly to her form. Llew had eyes for nothing but her. he laughed when she brought up the goat. He sprang up onto the side of the bath and put one foot upon the beast’s back.

‘Look,’ he cried. ‘No hands!’

At that very moment the spear flashed out of the sun and into his side. Llew screamed. His body slipped from him and he flew up in the shape of his totem, the eagle, and winged his way away from the fateful spot.

Gwydion was lost. He could not see his son anywhere. He hunted for him, he hunted high and he hunted low. He walked the length and breadth of Gwynedd until, finally, he came upon an empty pigsty and a perplexed swineherd.

‘My pig,’ he told Gwydion. ‘She is the finest pig in the whole world and I feed her acorns and truffles yet, every morning, she runs out of her sty and however I go I cannot keep up with her. I know not where she goes. I am afraid she will leave me.’

Gwydion snuffed the air, he knew that perfume.

‘Let me try,’ he said. ‘tomorrow sun-up, I will follow her.’

As the sun came up the pig was off with Gwydion in her wake. He ran and ran and ran until he came up, all standing, at an oak tree by a lake. The light flashed from the mountain of eagles and he looked down. There, at his feet, was the pig, snuffling and chuffling, gobbling and slobbering her way through the rotting flesh which fell out of the tree in front of her. Gwydion looked up, and up. His sight showed him an eagle in the topmost branches, the bird had a terrible wound. And Gwydion knew. That was his son. It was his flesh which fell to the ground and which the pig was eating.

Gwydion began to sing. And as he sang so the eagle came down to the centre of the tree. Gwydion sang on and the eagle stepped down further until he was on the lowest branch of the tree. Gwydion sang on and the eagle came down and sat in his lap.

‘Come out, my son, come home,’ Gwydion looked into the staring yellow eyes that knew him not. ‘Hast shifted too long and forgotten yourself entirely. And Gwydion struck him with his staff and the eagle shape fell off him and Llew sat in Gwydion’s lap, all weak and wan.

Gwydion healed his son’s body.

‘I must kill he who killed me,’ Llew told his father. ‘I must take back my death. As long as he stands for me I cannot stand. He has my geas.’

‘Know’st  thou who he is who ordered thy death?’

And Llew looked in his father’s eyes and saw Math’s face.

Llew stood where the tannaiste had stood and the tannaiste stood where Llew had stood.

‘I would put a stone between us,’ said the tannaiste.

‘Make it so,’ said Llew.

Llew hefted the spear and threw it. It sang through the air, through the stone and through the heart of the tannaiste and he fell dead. And Math felt it in his bones.

Gwydion went to Blodeuwedd.

‘Are you satisfied, magician?’ she asked him.

‘I did not know that you would kill him,’ he said.

‘An’ you had known would you have given me form, done the job?’

Gwydion looked away, ‘No,’ he said.

‘And what of the boy?’

‘He is a man. He has taken back his own death. And Math can feel it in his bones.’

‘He is a man,’ Blodeuwedd took his hand and set it on her breast. ‘And what of you?’

Gwydion shook his head.

Blodeuwedd took him, held him and surrounded him. He melted within her. As the seed shot out of him her felt her crumble in his hands, felt the softness of feathers, heard the low call of a mating owl. And then there was nothing. He lay face down on the earth, tears pouring down his face.

The Enchanter's Tale    Merlin

Merlin

They named it the Enchanted Forest, or sometimes the Valley of No Return. This is where I live. Where I move and have my being. Those who come near turn away, turn back when they look into the dark shadows of the haunted trees.

I am. I am here. And where is here I hear you ask. But I just told you. Do you not know?

Midnight on top of mile-high mountain. The fairy men gather, swarming like bees and they are, indeed, after the Queen. The sickle moon casts small shadows for these are the Men of Shadow and their shadow envelops the worlds. They stand and sit around the stone. Custennin laughs and points to the cup, all carved out of a single green jewel. The water wells up in the hollow basin atop the stone.

“Who will it be then?” he cries.

But none answer, not yet, the threads are not yet clear.

Moonlight whistles in the wind. The fairy men shiver their wings, refracting light-shards around the wet grass.

“Dew,” says one.

“Aye,” says another. “Come the Morning Star and we will catch it.”

They wait. All waits. For what? Birth? Death?

One long black finger pointed silently to the moon. The shadows lengthened momentarily and then vanished. The Light-Bringer skimmed the horizon. There was a dark, damp, breathy sigh amongst the fairy men. One took a phial and caught the dew as it fell from the black asphodel. The wind sighed too.

Up now! High! Fast! They swarm down upon the palace below. The window is open. A single candle burns casting a pool of buttery light. They slither through the casement like moths to stand around the bed.

She lies there. A half-smile on her mouth, the blue veins tracing maps across her eyelids.

“See,” pointed one. “She dreams.” And he took the phial of dew and slid it between her legs into the cave of making.

She was climbing up the rocky path. Icicles dripped on her, the bare thorn branches clung to her clothes, the warm breath of the donkey calmed her neck. He carried blankets and food and her medicine box. He nuzzled her neck gently and she took courage from his warmth.

They came out with the sun, all at once, on the top of the mountain. He was waiting, hunched by the dying embers of the fire. He had kept it for her through the night and waited, hoping and not daring to hope.

“See!” she smiled across the distance. “I am here.”

She looked to his wounds. The blood had streamed and poured, cleansing the black metal of the Saxon spear. He was weak but there was no more fever. He would live.

She gave him breakfast and he held out a portion of the food to her.

“Eat with me?” he asked.

They broke the bread and sopped it in the wine. She built up the fire and felt the fire build up between them. She brought the blankets into the back of the cave and laid him on them. He drew her down. A million, million stars burst forth, went hunting and the lucky one found the round shining crystal globe and entered in.

So I began. In a cave, on top of a mountain, the seed of a king and the hatchling of a queen. And the fairy men stood guard upon her sleep and made her dream come true.

Look about you now. Do you see the knotted faces in the bowls of the trees? These are my fathers. Do you see the mists who slither along the paths? These are my brothers. Look up now, do you see the tree-tops milking the clouds for dew? This is the mother’s-milk that grew me to a man.

As a youngling they brought me to my first great test. Vortigern called me, took me, up to the mountain they now call Dinas Emrys. Each day the foolish man built up a tower on the place and each night the red dragon of power and the white dragon of love fought and writhed and loved together tumbling his walls.

“Blood!” he cried. “Your blood!” he pointed at me.

I laughed.

“Not blood but wit!” I cried. “Come with me!”

And he followed. Down and down we went. Deep into the bowels of the mother, in her dark passages where shadow dwells and all that frightens foolish man. And there we found them, sleeping in each other’s arms, red on white on red.

I called the boy with the torch. He stood behind me.

“If you shake the flame you shake the shadow,” I told him. “Then we all die!”

He looked up at my smiling and saw the glee in my eyes at the thought of bringing down the mountain on top of all. He swallowed hard.

“I will not shake, my lord,” he said.

I stretched out my hand and pointed. The shadow followed, flowed down my finger and out across space. It touched the dragons where their hearts met. They rose up roaring, bursting through the rock and out into the morning sky. They twined and twisted, writhing, knotting. The light grew in them until they imploded. A new morning star had risen out the Earth.

“A portend,” I lowered my brows to the king. “He who comes in the wake of that star will drink thy blood. Now build thy tower, for all the good it will do thee.”

And I strode off down the mountain.

“I want her!” Uther cried.

A baby calling for candy would have had more of my sympathy. But the pricklings came again into my thumbs and I could not be still.

I took him to the castle on the rock and spun the dragon’s breath. He rode the bridge of shadow and came into her as the comet-tail chased across the sky.

The mountain stood up tall. Mist covered the water, dragon’s breath again, as always is for me. The white stag trotted down to the water’s edge and drank. The dawn-light shone his hooves like gold. He stepped out into the water, into the mist. Soon all I saw was the twining branches of his antlers rising like a tree out of the water. “Gwynn?” I whispered. Something answered in a tickling of thought but it was not him. I got the boat and skulled across, quiet as a mouse on the silent seas.

The cave was dark. Big and dark. I heard the water dripping from the hanging icicles of salt, found my careful way between the salt pillars on the floor. Something shone ahead. There was a stone, a flat stone. It lay upon it, hiding in a caul of limestone. I took my knife and shattered the caul, breaking out the birth-tomb of the sword. It came easy to my hand. As I took it I looked up and there, in the shadows, the white face and beard stood under the tree of antlers. I nicked my finger on the sword and dropped three drops of blood to Father Beli.  The antlers nodded and I felt the wind of his laughter.

Back in the boat the Morning Star climbed out of the mists and shone upon the sword. The greenstone jewel glimmered softly.

I took the sword up the mountain to the Green Chapel and you know the rest.

The boy was my son as much as Uther’s and yet none of my get, but it was me he held as father and a sore and joyful burden that was, Is. For he is not gone, and that you know.

In the evening of my time she found me. Green eyes looked sly at me from out of the shadow-forest of her lashes. Like knows like. I looked sly back.

“Come!” she said and took me in the boat with silver sails across the silver seas to the Enchanted Forest. There are three steps there beside the fountain of youth, did you know? And there is a lake. She builds with crystal. The palace is fine and light and full of birdsong although it is as deep beneath the lake as the mountain is high. We twine together, writhing, knotting, her red hair coiling with my white, until the light grows within us and we implode.

So a new Morning Star rises out of the Earth.

The Enchanter's Tale    Merlin

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